LIBRARY 

OF   THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

OF" 


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Received         C^^V^  ,  /  $9  7. 


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SONGS 


OF    THE 


SAND  HILLS 


BY  WALKING  HILLER. 


UITI7BBSIT7I 


SAN    FRANCISCO: 

A,  L.  Bancroft  and  Company,  Printers. 

1873. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873, 

BY  JOSEPH  BOSS, 
In  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


PEEFACE. 


It  was  not  originally  intended,  by  the  author  of  this  little 
book,  to  give  it  publicity  further  than  a  few  copies  to 
distribute  among  his  acquaintance ;  but,  on  consultation, 
concluded  to  print  more  copies,  and  commit  them  to  the 
public.  If,  perchance,  some  of  the  within  productions 
should  engage  the  attention  of  the  influential,  so  as  to  be- 
come in  favor  with  the  good  people  of  San  Francisco,  then 
will  the  author  feel  convinced  that  he  has  not  made  a 
mistake  in  printing  the  within;  and  that  his  natural  ele- 
ment in  that  direction  is  not  a  mistake,  but  is  worth  fur- 
ther cultivation,  and  he  will  endeavor  to  produce  some- 
thing more  elaborate  than  this  little  experiment. 

If  it  meets  with  favor  at  all,  of  course  it  will  be  in  San 
Francisco,  as  most  of  the  references  are  local,  and  pertain 
to  San  Francisco,  of  which  the  author  is  an  old  resident; 
who,  if  it  had  been  his  lot  to  have  been  cast  in  a  more 
romantic  part  of  this  State,  or  among  her  hills  and  valleys, 
which  is  so  inspiring  for  poetry,  and  where  the  wild  birds' 
chorus  wakes  up  the  single  note  of  the  less  favored  birds 
of  song.  If  such  a  part  of  the  State  of  California  had  been 
his  home,  the  result  might  have  been  an  earlier  applica- 
tion to  the  natural  inspiration  which  has  dictated  this 
effort.  But  as  an  old  sand-hill  resident,  being  long  en- 
gaged in  helping  the  first  run,  or  first  spread  of  the  wings, 
of  civilization  over  our  sand-hills,  as  a  working  man,  and 
made  subject  to  the  summer  winds  and  the  sand-hills'  be- 
quests, together  with  all  the  many  other  anti-poetical  in- 
sinuations, too  numerous  to  mention;  such  as  all  old 
settlers,  have  been  subjected  to  in  San  Francisco,  which  is 
everything  but  that  to  inspire  poetry,  or  inspire  poetical 
ambition. 

^^ 

>*  OT  IHB 

. 


4  PREFACE. 

And  consequently  poetry,  in  the  author,  was  as  the 
notes  of  the  bird,  made  long  silent  by  the  cheerless  aspect 
of  a  long  winter,  until  the  spring  time  in  life  has  well  nigh 
stole  away,  before  the  effort  to  produce  pro-rhymical 
verse  was  made  by  him.  But  the  desire  to  put  words  to- 
gether in  rhyme,  as  is  said  in  California,  would  once  in 
a  while  crop  out;  until  spare  time  was  offered  by  the  au- 
thor becoming  indisposed  for  a  time,  and  which  gave  him 
an  opportunity  which  suggested  the  chance  to  put  together 
whatever  poetical  effusions  are  herein  contained.  The 
author  will  say,  that,  whatever  style  of  versification  he 
chanced  to  commence  with,  or  adopt,  such  is  observed 
strictly  to  the  end  of  each  particular  production;  and  the 
rhyme  being  found  more  frequent  than  is  general,  as  correct 
rhyming  tends  to  lead  the  mind,  he  has  endeavored  that 
the  measure  and  rhyme  should  be  correct,  and  that  the 
peculiar  style  of  versification  of  each  particular  piece  be 
harmoniously  continued  the  same  from  beginning  to  the 
end  of  each  piece.  The  wording  will  be  found  to  be 
familiar  and  simple,  and  running  smoothly,  so  that  the 
mind  will  not  get  tripped,  or  thrown  from  the  thread  of 
narration,  by  either  long  or  unfamiliar  words  or  untoward 
irregular  measure,  after  the  mind  is  made  up  to  follow  a 
certain  style  of  measure  and  verse;  and,  as  these  few  nat- 
ural rhymes  were  produced  as  a  fountain  stream  which 
bursts  forth  in  the  desert,  as  an  outlet  or  relief  to  a  boun- 
teous supply,  so  it  is  with  the  author,  and  if  this  little 
beginning  is  appreciated,  there  is  an  abundant  supply  from 
whence  it  came. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SAND  HILLS. 


SAN  FRANCISCO,   OR  THE  SAND-HILL  CITY. 


a  city  to  make  far  out  West, 
•*•       Of  the  ocean's  foundation  and  crest, 

In  long  years  past  away, 

'Neath  the  ocean's  white  spray, 

To  throw  up  in  a  heap 

From  the  great  vasty  deep, 
Rolling  out,  rolling  in,  then  was  planned, 
To  make  mountains  and  valleys  of  3and. 

Was  laid  up  by  the  ocean  to  save, 
Which  she  washed  out  from  many  a  cave, 

In  laborious  toil, 

And  sometimes  in  turmoil, 

To  lay  out  a  place 

Which  time  would  not  efface, 
For  a  city  to  build  of  her  own, 
And  which  would  be  quite  large  when  'tis  grown. 

With  what  diligence  ocean  was  blest, 
And  to  never  as  much  as  want  rest 

To  accomplish  her  will; 

Keeping  on  to  fulfill, 

And  still  cheerful  with  song, 

Through  all  time  now  so  long; 
Through  each  century's  roll  as  they  pass, 
Making  up  all  those  sand-hills  so  vast. 


SAN  FRANCISCO. 

And  the  wind  must  have  lent  her  a  hand, 
For  to  carry  away  o'er  the  land, 

To  fill  up  and  to  make, 

Both  upon  them  did  take 

For  a  city  to  build; 

For  that  purpose  they  rilled, 
For  foundation  to  make  and  to  lay, 
Up  the  space  between  her  and  the  bay. 

With  no  limit  of  time  to  complete, 
Nor  with  anything  else  to  compete, 

Long  and  last  they  got  through, 

And  had  no  more  to  do 

But  to  level  the  drifts 

O'er  the  hills,  which  uplifts 
Up  so  high,  sending  forth  their  bequest, 
Left  for  mankind  to  do  all  the  rest. 

Now  her  mountains  and  hills  looking  bare, 
And  her  channel,  for  nothing  was  there, 

On  her  bay,  so  remote, 

Nothing  on  there  did  float; 

On  that  channel  so  wide 

For  all  shipping  to  ride; 
On  that  beautiful  wide-spreading  bay 
Where  the  ships  of  all  nations  could  lay, 

But  for  man  it  was  far  from  elate, 
Isolated,  and  nought  did  invite 

Him  that  place  to  possess; 

But,  yet,  nevertheless, 

To  this  place  they  did  come, 

From  their  kindred  and  home, 
And  in  ship  loads  they  entered  the  bay, 
From  their  homes,  which  they  left  far  away. 

For  the  gold,  which  the  placers  did  fill, 
And  which  shin'd  from  the  race  of  that  mill 

And  in  rivers  was  found, 

Soon  was  rumored  all  round, 


SAN    FKANCISCO. 

From  that  place  near  beside 

To  the  worlds  so  wide, 
Causing  men  from  all  nations  to  appear, 
From  the  distance  so  far  and  so  near. 

And  to  level  the  sand-hills  they  went, 
And  commenced  was  the  building  of  tent; 

And  in  cabins  to  stay, 

While  from  homes  far  away, 

Was  their  buildings  so  rude 

For  the  miners  so  crude, 
Made  of  lumber  sent  far  from  the  East 
Was  their  homes,  while  on  beans  they  did  feast. 

Then  the  place  for  this  city  to  be, 

And  made  land  from  the  wind  and  the  sea ; 

On  its  desert  like  frown 

Their  had  sprung  up  a  town, 

And  with  plenty  of  gold 

Soon  began  for  to  mould 
Into  streets  for  that  city  to  make, 
Now  was  planned  and  laid  out  with  some  stake. 

In  her  infancy  now  she  was  born, 
Yet,  in  distance,  and  looking  forlorn, 

Growing  sportive  and  wild, 

Or  the  same  as  a  child 

With  the  savage  in  wood 

It  partakes  of  their  moods; 
Cut  from  civilization  so  far, 
Or  alone  as  the  western  star. 

Then  what  wonder  in  strong  ale  or  beer, 
The  report  of  a  pistol  would  hear; 

As  the  world  sent  forth 

All  her  fast  ones  by  birth 

In  adventurous  throng, 

There  would  some  be  among 
Which  no  check  or  forbearance  did  awe, 
For  at  first,  there  was  nothing  like  law. 


SAN  FRANCISCO. 

But  what  terror  to  all  there  was  sprung, 
In  the  tap  of  that  bell  when  it  rung; 

Started  all  to  their  feet, 

For  the  vigilants  meet, 

And  the  citizens  come 

To  give  trial  to  some, 
And,  perhaps,  for  beginning  so  fast, 
Be  hung  from  the  window  or  mast. 

Or,  what  wonder  she  grew  up  so  bold; 
For  within  she  had  plenty  of  gold 

At  her  will  and  command, 

As  she  now  took  a  stand, 

Making  business  all  round, 

With  the  world  was  bound 
Unto  commerce,  and  steamers  did  play, 
As  with  shipping  they  entered  her  bay. 

And  the  gamesters  from  Europe  and  France, 
With  their  tables  spread  out  to  enhance, 

Or  their  piles  for  to  make 

Said,  come  down  with  your  stake, 

And  your  fortune  to  try, 

Then  most  all  did  comply; 
For  the  gold  on  their  tables  did  clank, 
And  as  music  it  came  from  their  bank- 

How  it  makes  one  look  back  on  that  time, 
In  the  days  of  that  country  and  clime, 

When  the  simple  invite, 

Which  would  seem  so  polite; 

"  So  come  down,  gentlemen, 

Make  your  game,  gentlemen." 
Count  away  on  the  table  by  run, 
Then  decide  on  who  lost,  and  who  won, 

And  those  days  of  music  and  song, 
With  those  tables  surrounded  in  throngs, 

With  the  sound  of  the  coin, 

Making  notes  to  enjoin, 


SAN  FRANCISCO. 

And  the  game  made,  perchance, 
Might  be  won  more  than  once, 
For  to  build  up  credulity  strong, 
And  to  let  all  see  nothing  was  wrong. 

But  what  wonder,  as  already  said, 

To  those  vices  this  place  should  be  wed, 

While  a  stripling,  so  young, 

From  society  flung, 

Nearly  out  of  the  world 

Was  the  male  race  here  hurled; 
Far  away  from  their  homes,  where  decoys 
Took  the  place  of  the  pure  female  voice. 

But  with  all  those  devices  and  sport, 
Which  the  youth  is  so  prone  to,  in  short 

They  are  sure  to  outgrow, 

And  when  better  they  know, 

And  when  nearing  the  time 

Of  maturity's  clime, 

They  will  cut  off  those  ways,  and  will  plan 
All  the  ways  and  the  doings  of  man. 

So  the  city  which  nature  had  said, 
And  so  many  which  gold  here  had  led, 

From  the  world  in  quest, 

Now  began  for  to  rest, 

In  reflection  mature, 

Now  with  motives  more  pure 
Telling  forth  to  the  world  in  truth 
She  had  seen  all  the  faults  of  her  youth. 

As  the  blood  in  the  races  will  tell, 
So  was  found  in  her  people  as  well; 
As  from  everywhere  here, 
From  all  lands  and  all  sphere 
They  commenced  for  to  build, 
And  the  city  was  filled 
To  the  channel  clear  out  in  the  bay, 
From  the  sand-hills  which  stood  in  array. 


10  SAN   FKANCISCO. 

Long  at  last  she  did  get  through  her  teen 
Though  chastened  by  the  elements  keen, 

Almost  swept  clear  away, 

Both  in  June  and  in  May, 

She  was  wiped  nearly  out 

Before  water  did  spout 
From  her  arteries  and  through  her  veins, 
As  sent  down  from  those  springs  and  those  plains. 

She  has  got  to  be  full  twenty-one, 
But  how  many  a  pioneer's  gone 

In  her  bosom  to  sleep  ? 

But  how  faithful  did  keep 

How  they  toiled  to  make  known, 

Long  before  she  was  grown, 
For  to  come  on  their  track  and  make  sure 
Of  the  riches  to  all  would  inure. 

Well,  if  now  she  is  not  what  she  should, 
Imperfection  is  sure  to  make  mood, 

She  will  all  this  outgrow, 

And  the  growth  won't  be  slow; 

And  when  double  her  age, 

There  are  people  engage 
At  a  time  when  in  years  so  mature, 
In  frivolities  nothing  can  cure. 

There  are  frailties  which  chronic  become, 
Always  relished  and  cherished  by  some, 

Through  all  time  of  their  life, 

And  at  all  ages  rife, 

'Till  they  sleep  in  their  grave, 

Does  their  weakness  enslave; 
Though  a  century  should  be  outgrown, 
Yet  their  paths  with  the  same  still  is  strewn. 

All  must  think  now,  and  say  she's  but  young, 
If  in  haste  she's  condemned  by  the  tongue; 

They  may  say  in  a  haste, 

That  her  ways  are  unchaste, 


SAN  FKANCISCO.  11 

Without  thinking  at  all, 

Where  she  came  from  when  small; 
How  ungrateful  to  taunt  her  or  jeer, 
When  raised  up  on  a  desert  frontier. 

But  look  not  on  her  past,  for  its  gone, 
As  she  merged  from  the  ocean  alone, 

Without  sister  to  give 

Her  advice  how  to  live, 

From  the  day  she  was  born, 

Left  alone  and  forlorn; 
But  when  feeling  important  in  place, 
Then  the  world  her  saluted  with  grace. 

Her  proportions  have  merely  matured 
From  the  past  lonesome  life  she  endured. 

Now,  the  world's  awake, 

Her  acquaintance  to  make, 

And  with  bands  reaching  o'er, 

To  her  great  ocean's  shore; 
For  to  join  her  in  bands  to  elate, 
In  the  distance  which  did  isolate. 

And  to  join  with  her  sisters  so  far, 
To  enjoy  what  the  distance  did  mar; 

As  one  family  strong, 

For  they  alldo  belong 

To  the  same  stock  and  race, 

With  the  same  human  face, 
And  the  same,  by  the  eagle's  great  flight 
To  her  ocean,  before  it  did  light. 

Now  she  sits  on  her  hills  looking  down, 
On  her  head  she  can  wear  the  bright  crown, 

As  a  queen  here  she  rest 

By  her  great  ocean  West ; 

Of  her  crown  never  stripped, 

While  her  great  bay  eliped 
For  the  world's  great  commerce  to  greet, 
While  they  lay  their  bequest  at  her  feet. 


12  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

Reaching  out  to  make  commerce  with  all, 
And  the  trade  of  all  nations  forestall. 

Nothing  else  can  take  place, 

Or  can  ere  be  the  case; 

And  the  ground  where  she  stand, 

Partly  made  up  of  sand, 
Must  outvalue  all  else  on  this  globe, 
When  thus  wrapped  in  her  commercial  robe, 

As  she  sits  by  her  channel  so  wide, 
Where  the  ebbing  and  flowing  of  tide, 

Not  too  rapid  to  lay 

The  whole  length  of  her  bay, 

And  so  sheltered  and  sure 

From  the  storms  is  secure; 
With  the  ships  of  the  world  in  her  lap, 
While  outside  her  great  ocean  o'erlap. 

And  she  sits  at  the  side  of  her  gate 
For  the  world,  both  early  and  late, 

Giving  entrance  to  all 

Sister  States,  great  and  small. 

This  great  country  all  o'er 

To  the  other  great  shore, 
Where  the  wide  Atlantic  resort, 
In  her  swaggering  ways,  as  in  sport. 

To  come  back  to  our  city  again 
In  her  splendor  to  rise  all  amain; 
In  great  beauty  and  power, 
Where  her  mountains  now  tower, 
As  her  pillars  of  strength, 
Passing  through  her  whole  length; 
From  her  gate  running  off  to  the  south, 
And  as  shutting  the  ocean's  wide  mouth. 

Who  would  not,  as  her  child,  like  to  be, 
And  look  back  on  her  greatness  and  see, 

On  the  day  and  the  time 

When  she  gets  to  her  prime; 


SAN  FRANCISCO.  13 

When  those  places,  now  dots, 

Join  in  hands  with  her  lots 
In  surrounding  her  channels  outlay, 
The  whole  length  of  her  wide-spreading  bay. 

With  Goat  Island,  her  center  and  heart, 
Whose  pulsations  is  felt  to  impart 

Through  her  lungs  on  each  side 

Of  its  life-giving  tide, 

Which  all  flows  through  her  veins 

And  arteries'  mains; 
All  combined  in  one  bodily  frame, 
As  one  city,  one  interest,  one  name. 

She  has  made  a  grand  start,  and  displays 
In  her  young  and  her  frolicksome  ways, 

As  her  temples  will  say, 

In  this  time  and  this  day, 

That  her  people,  devout, 

For  their  churches  come  out; 
Christianity,  deep  taken  root, 
In  the  sand-hills  now  under  her  foot. 

While  her  domes  and  her  steeples  ascend 
To  the  clouds  ere  they  come  to  an  end, 

Tells  how  fertile  her  land 

For  their  roots  to  expand; 

While  their  tops  are  in  clouds, 

Or  enameled  in  shrouds, 
Sending  forth  from  their  steeples,  which  tells 
In  appeals,-  from  their  church-going  bells. 

And  the  synagogues'  pillars,  by  day 
And  by  night,  which  the  history  say 

Guarded  Israel's  tribe 

To  the  Red  Sea;  beside 

Emblematic  is  still 

Lifted  high  by  the  hill, 
For  his  children  to  still  keep  in  view 
And  for  all  generations  out-through. 


14  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

Many  beautiful  temples  to  view, 

She  has  raised,  and  they  must  be  all  new 

To  adorn  her  hills, 

While  her  people  them  fill; 

On  two  Sundays  per  week, 

Place  of  worship  they  seek; 
One  of  Saturday,  meets  as  of  old, 
By  the  prophets  and  patriots  told. 

And  her  schools,  who  can  say  she  has  not  ? 
They  are  seen  upon  many  a  plot 

As  the  pride  of  the  free, 

For  to  look  to  and  be 

As  the  nursery  seat 

Of  this  Union  so  great; 
And  the  hope  of  the  nation  to  hold, 
As  the  youth  of  the  nation  they  mould. 

This  is  something  of  which  she  can  say, 
That  her  schools  and  school-houses  this  day 

Is  so  little  behind, 

That  it  is  hard  to  find, 

As  her  sister  States  tell, 

And  they  know  it  as  well, 
That  her  schools  are  an  equal  and  far, 
Although  ages  ahead  of  her  star. 

And  her  orphan  asylums,  how  grand ! 
For  a  city  so  young,  she  has  planned, 

Which  some  older  States  might 

Take  some  precepts,  not  light; 

For  it  first  was  her  care, 

Soon  as  money  could  spare, 
To  provide  for  the  orphans  in  need 
Was  accomplished  with  parental  speed. 

And  no  wonder  she  prospered  so  well; 

For  her  poor,  and  her  orphans  as  well, 
Did  she  first  make  a  place 
They  might  have,  and  in  peace 


SAN  FRANCISCO.  15 

All  their  wants  be  supplied; 

All  was  done  while  men  tried 
To  make  homes  for  their  families  too, 
Having  nearly  enough  for  to  do. 

And  her  hills  and  her  valleys  now  tell 
Of  these  places  she  managed  so  well 

To  provide  for  the  poor, 

And  her  orphans  in  store; 

That  throughout  her  young  days, 

And  her  lone  frontier  ways,       • 
Of  those  duties  she  never  lost  sight, 
The  neglected  she  never  did  slight. 

And  her  temples  of  Masonry  stands 
That  mysterious  tie  of  all  lands — 

Emanating  above 

To  make  brotherly  love, 

So  that  men  still  can  know 

All  are  brethren  below 
On  this  globe,  or  this  world  of  ours, 
Which  was  framed  from  those  temples  and  towers. 

And  her  orders  of  different  kinds 
In  harmonious  ties  which  men  binds, 

All  as  brethren,  indeed, 

And  to  help  when  in  need, 

With  a  brotherly  care, 

And  with  such  for  to  share 
What  was  given  to  men  to  dispose, 
Like  true  charity  ne'er  to  disclose. 

Oh,  what  beautiful  things  to  behold, 

And  what  blessings  from  them  does  unfold 

To  the  needy  and  poor 

As  they  open  their  door 

To  the  fatherless  child, 

And  their  mother  which  smiled 
On  their  infant-like  days,  but  now  gone, 
And  now  left  in  this  world  alone. 


16  SAN  FEANCISCO. 

But  to  tell  all  she  now  has  within 

Her  vast  borders,  and  who,  and  what  kin, 

Would  be  futile  to  try, 

And  must  now  pass  it  by, 

But  accomplishing  all 

When  so  young  and  so  small; 
Far  away  from  the  world  arraigned, 
And  majority  barely  attained. 

And  the  beauty  and  bloom,  which  foretells 
In  her  youth,  as  her  children  and  belles 

In  her  vigorous  clime, 

In  proportions  sublime, 

As  a  land  of  the  rose, 

Opening  out  to  disclose 
From  its  stem,  in  great  favor  to  be, 
And  the  world  of  wonder  to  see. 

And  her  numerous  banks  and  hotels 
In  her  center,  which  always  foretells, 

That  the  man  of  the  day 

Here  has  found  out  his  way, 

And  American-like, 

With  true  aim,  for  to  strike 
For  their  fortune,  far  out  in  the  West, 
With  that  vigor,  Americans  blest. 

San  Francisco,  now,  but  twenty-two 
When  she  lives  but  one  century  through; 

When  this  short  time,  or  near, 

On  some  morning,  when  clear, 

Oh  !  how  pleasant  to  look, 

From  some  corner,  or  nook, 
For  to  see  her  in  majesty  stand, 
Looking  down  on  the  ships  from  all  lands. 

Butall  must  pass  away  as  they  came; 
On  their  grave-stones  there  may  be  some  name 
Of  her  old  pioneer; 
May  he  read  with  a  tear, 


LINES   WRITTEN   TO   MRS.  CALIF.  17 

In  her  grave-yards  inclosed, 

Where  they  lay  decomposed, 
For  the  time  o'er  their  graves  long  has  flown, 
And  the  grass  o''er  their  graves  long  has  grown. 


LINES 

WRITTEN   TO    MRS.    CALIF,     IN    BOSTON. 

OH,  dear  auntie,  how  long 
It  does  seem  you  are  gone, 
And  to  get  reconciled  are  not  able: 
If  you  knew  how  you're  missed 
Taken  out  of  the  list 
Of  our  circle  surrounding  the  table. 

You  remember  the  day 

We  no  longer  could  stay, 
But  in  haste  for  to  go  to  the  wedding, 

How  you  stood  in  the  door 

Of  our  entry  once  more, 
And  the  tears  from  your  eyes  you  were  shedding, 

How  that  same  afternoon, 

Came  an  hour  too  soon 
By  mistake  in  the  time  he'd  to  tarry; 

At  that  depot  to  stay, 

Which  is  called  San  Jose, 
And  while  Maggie  was  cross  as  old  Harry ! 

How  "  Scott  "  followed  your  track 

The  next  morning  in  tack, 
Round  the  hills  as  a  chase  o'er  the  mountains; 

Or  across  the  vast  plains, 

And  the  streams,  or  earth's  veins, 
Which  flows  on  through  her  arteries'  fountains. 


18  LINES   WRITTEN   TO   MES.  CALIF. 

I  must  tell  you,  of  course, 

Of  the  Square  and  its  source — 
Union  Square  is  the  one,  I  am  thinking — 

How  the  grass  on  it's  grown, 

Twice  the  same  has  been  mown, 
While  the  flag  from  the  flag-staff  is  kinking. 

Waves  the  flag  from    that  pole, 

Which  stands  now  on  a  knoll, 
And  the  trees  growing  up  as  been  planted, 

With  the  walks  coursing  round, 

Or  as  Nature  had  found 
Them,  the  same  as  been  made,  or  been  wanted. 

The  old  National  Guards, 

With  its  tower  in  wards, 
As  a  land-mark  still  stands  as  a  station, 

For  that  company  true, 

To  the  red,  white  and  blue, 
Or  the  pride  of  the  city  and  nation. 

And  that  church,  built  of  wood, 

On  the  Square,  now  looks  good, 
Though  surrounded  by  so  many  shanties, 

While  it  towers  in  height, 

With  its  pinnacles  light, 
And  is  known  as  the  church  we  call'd  Aunty's. 

Now,  that  this  Trinity  Church 

You  have  left  in  the  lurch, 
With  its  arches  of  gothic  so  gorgee, 

And  that  Sunday-school  class, 

You  are  far  from,  alas! 
And  no  aunty  has  poor  little  Georgie ! 

We  are  all  yet  alive, 

Still  in  three  twenty-five, 
But  from  you  we  have  not  had  a  letter; 

And  as  Medas  away 

Now,  the  most  of  the  day, 
She's  promoted,  which  makes  her  feel  better. 


LINES  WRITTEN   TO   MRS.  CALIF.  19 

And  your  room's  vacant  still, 

For  there's  no  one  to  fill, 
Take  your  place,  or  the  bed  to  look  under, 

There's  the  bed-clothes  in  layers, 

Where  you  oft  said  your  prayers, 
And  the  prayer-book  you  often  did  ponder. 

There's  the  stairs  made  so  wide, 

Where  you  still  did  confide, 
That  a  trip  you  would  make  without  touching; 

With  a  man  on  each  side, 

O'er  them  you  would  glide,         [ditching. 
When  you're  bound  for  the  place  where  they're 

Now  I'll  bid  you  good  bye, 

And  I  know  you'll  not  cry, 
But  the  cold  's  coming  on  which  will  splinter, 

Binding  up  all  that  coast 

With  the  snow  and  the  frost, 
Through  the  long  lonesome  nights  of  cold  winter. 

Then  you'll  wish  youjself  back, 

O'er  the  snow-belt,  or  track, 
Or  before  it  gets  covered  by  drifting; 

If  you  stay  there  so  long, 

Those  good  people  among, 
But  you'll  say  that  I'm  now  only  sifting. 

How  I'd  like  to  be  there 

On  that  common  or  square; 
On  the  garden  where  flowers  are  blooming 

Through  those  long  summer  days, 

Where  the  musical  lays 
With  the  sound  of  the  cannon  is  booming. 

I'll  ask  pardon  from  you, 

And  write  something  of  Lou, 
But  it  don't  seem  so  long  since  they  married; 

For  'tis  over  four  years 

Since  they  left  us  in  tears, 
And  away  in  a  steamship  was  carried. 


20  WHIMS   OF   THE   OCEAN. 

Before  this,  you  have  been, 

And  the  darling  you've  seen, 
Which  her  grandmother  worships  and  blesses  ; 

If  you  please  you  again, 

And  embrace  her  amain, 
And  for  all  of  us  add  many  kisses. 

And  the  rest  of  them  tell, 

That  you  left  us  all  well 
At  the  time  you  got  off  and  was  ready; 

From  the  time  you  did  pray, 

Until  that  very  day, 
That  the  ground  and  the  sand-hills  were  steady. 

If  they  don't  feel  too  grand 

For  to  hear  of  the  sand, 
Or  the  shaking  of  this  peninsula; 

Never  worse  did  it  shake 

Than  that  day  your  prayer  make, 
Since  the  natives  drove  on  their  first  mulla. 


WHIMS  OF  THE  OCEAN. 

WHAT  is  man  or  his  time 
While  he  moves  round  in  chime, 
Or  the  sea,  when  'tis  raging  in  storm; 
When  it  rages  so  high, 
Coming  near  and  nigh 
To  make  little  of  all  man  can  form. 

What  a  toy  does  it  look 
On  the  ocean's  great  brook, 

When  away  in  the  distance  from  shore, 
When  it  rises  and  falls 
With  a  hoarse  voice  which  calls 

To  the  winds  in  that  sad  solemn  roar. 


WHIMS   OF   THE   OCEAN. 

What  the  greatest  of  plan, 

Which  are  placed  there  by  man, 
When  the  ocean  conspires  to  possess, 

And  what  means  does  employ, 

And  what  cunning  decoy, 
As  she  rises  to  meet  and  caress. 

How  at  times  rests  from  rage, 

When  her  anger  assuage, 
As  reposing  her  children  to  see, 

Turning  over  in  sport, 

As  from  schools  they  resort 
To  her  surface  so  playful  and  free. 

How  she's  quiet  and  still, 

Drawing  on  with  her  will, 
Through  her  veins,  as  in  currents  they  run; 

In  such  various  ways, 

Which  so  often  betrays; 
With  her  breath  she  eclipses  the  sun. 

Then  the  beacon  she  dims 

With  her  trifling  and  whims, 
From  the  seaman  and  mariner  brave; 

How  she  hides  all  from  view 

From  that  captain  and  crew, 
As  he  floats  o'er  her  fathomless  cave. 

Then,  at  times,  feeling  tame 

With  monotonous  same, 
She  commences  to  wrinkle  with  care; 

And  she  puts  on  her  cap, 

Turns  over  to  lap 
With  her  tongue,  as  a  lion  in  lair. 

Then  she  moves  to  contrive, 

And  with  cunning  connive; 
She  makes  motion  more  depth  to  display 

To  the  world  and  all 

Of  her  rises  and  fall, 
Let  them  just  think  of  her  just  as  they  may. 


22  WHIMS   OF   THE   OCEAN. 

Then  she  gets  in  a  rage, 

Knows  her  time  to  engage, 
In  a  violent  passion  to  tell 

To  that  vessel  and  crew, 

What  in  rage  she  can  do 
When  her  bosom  in  anger  does  swell. 

Then  she  dashes  and  wails 

Till  the  heart  of  man  quails 
At  her  anger  and  maddening  rave. 

With  what  obstinate  will, 

She  determines  to  fill 
That  brave  bark  with  her  mountainous  wave. 

But  her  fury  still  fails, 

And  but  little  prevails, 
For  the  bark  stands  the  storm  so  far; 

Though  she  screeches  and  strains, 

While  the  mariner  fains 
To  get  sight  of  the  sun  or  star. 

But  her  anger  is  deep, 

She  refuses  to  sleep, 
And  she  rages  still  more  in  the  dark, 

And,  while  struggling,  between 

Her  great  billows  is  seen 
The  slim  mast  and  the  spars  of  that  bark. 

But  outriding ^he  storm, 

The  staunch  vessel  in  form, 
One  sad,  treacherous  vein  she  employ, 

While  in  raging  and  roar, 

Draws  that  bark  to  her  shore, 
For  to  carry  away  and  destroy. 

When  thus  thrown  on  the  beach, 

Where  the  wild  fowl  does  screech, 
As  by  force,  she  still  trying  in  vain, 

Is  in  violence  tossed, 

And  where  all  now  is  lost, 
And  one  victory  added  again. 


WHIMS   OF   THE   OCEAN.  23 

Then  she  reaches  and  draws, 

When  she  man  overawes, 
To  herself  all  the  treasure  in  store 

Of  that  craft,  with  the  rest, 

To  her  caves  all  bequest, 
As  a  miser  in  hoarding  up  more. 

As  a  miser  indeed, 

And  as  always  in  need, 
Still  a  trying  to  get  something  more; 

For  as  wealth  still  beget, 

Those  same  ways  her  beset, 
As  a  miser  in  laying  up  store. 

Though  her  treasures  so  great 

That  no  man  can  relate 
All  laid  up  in  her  caves  down  below; 

While  in  riches  she  rolls, 

From  the  lines  to  the  poles, 
And  away  where  no  man  e'er  can  go. 

Yet,  mankind  there  is  found, 

With  her  treasures  all  round, 
Where  they  lay  in  her  caverns  so  cold; 

Way  deep  down  and  remote, 

While  she  o'er  all  does  gloat. 
They  ne'er  coveting  all  of  her  gold. 

There  they  lay  in  death's  dream, 

"Neath  the  ocean's  white  cream, 
In  her  foresis  of  gothic  and  core; 

In  her  depth  do  they  sleep 

'Neath  the  fathomless  deep, 
Where  in  pity  she's  covered  them  o'er. 

Where  no  sound  nor  a  tread 

Is  e'er  heard  near  their  bed, 
As  the  ages  and  time  pass  away; 

While  her  ebbing  and  flows 

Still  unceasingly  go, 
Till  they're  called  from  her  depth  the  last  day. 


24  GOOD-BYE   TO   '65. 

What  account  she  must  give 

On  that  day  when  all  live, 
Or  are  called  from  her  depths  to  come  forth; 

What  sight  must  that  be 

For  her  dead  all  to  see, 
When  she  gives  them  all  up  at  one  birth. 

With  what  sins  and  what  charge, 

By  the  wholesale  at  large, 
She  must  answer  for  all  of  the  waste, 

And  destruction  and  life 

From  all  time  in  her  strife, 
By  her  rages  of  passion  and  haste . 


GOOD-BYE  TO  '65. 

THE  year  has  gone,  as  all  must  go 
Who  labor  and  contrive; 
With  joys  and  woes  it's  past  and  gone, 
Good-bye,  old  '65. 

You've  many  seen  put  in  their  grave, 

Yet  many's  left  alive, 
And  many  breathed  first  breath  of  life, 

In  year  old  '65. 

You've  seen  great  warriors  yield  to  right, 
With  bands  that  did  connive, 

To  part  the  bands  of  liberty, 
In  you,  old  '65. 

You've  seen  the  din  of  battle  cease, 

A  lasting  peace  arrive, 
The  glorious  Union  all  restored, 

In  you,  old  '65. 


WRITTEN  ON  BECOMING  A  GRANDFATHER.  25 

You've  seen  the  dawning  of  the  day, 

When  liberty  arrive, 
And  all  the  races  here  that's  black 

Made  free  in  '65, 

But  now  you've  left  us  to  our  fate 

As  on  this  earth  we  hire, 
And  never  more  to  come  again — 

Good-bye,  old  65, 


WRITTEN  ON  BECOMING  A  GRANDFATHER 

NOW,  how  can  this  all  be  which  I  hear, 
As  it  falls  on  my  listening  ear, 
Coming  sportive  and  mild; 
Asking  where  is  its  grandpa  and  all, 
And  then  asking  the  cherub  to  call 
On  its  grandpa^  my  child. 

Is  it  possible  this  all  can  be, 
That  these  accents  directed  to  me, 

For  to  let  baby  know 
How  the  name  it  will  spread  all  around^ 
And  I'm  not  reconciled  to  the  sound 

Of  a  grandpa — that's  so. 

Still,  the  name  is  paternal,  and  makes 
Me  elated,  and  often  betakes 

Of  those  venerable  ways, 
But  now  how  can  I  think  this  is  me, 
With  a  grandchild  here  placed  on  my  knee, 

In  my  palmiest  days. 

True  an  honor  to  be  a  grandpa, 

But  it  strikes  me  with  wonder  and  awe, 

For  to  think  this  can  be; 
2 


26  WRITTEN  ON  BECOMING  A  GRANDFATHER. 

It  seems  yesterday  baby  in  arms 
Was  its  mother,  a  babe  with  some  charms, 
Sitting  on  this  same  knee. 

When  I  take  a  look  back  on  the  time, 
WThen  all  things  of  this  life  is  sublime, 

But  has  passed  now  in  truth, 
Oh,  how  quickly  the  time  has  gone  by 
On  the  wing,  and  how  quickly  it  fly, 

Taking  with  it  our  youth. 

A 

For  it  seems  but  a  span  since  I  loved 

With  the  fervor  of  youth,  which  then  moved 

O'er  life's  happiest  ways, 
And  which  chronic  becomes  when  we  pass 
O'er  that  time  on  the  dial  or  glass, 

Which  marks  noon  to  those  days. 

And  which  chronic  becomes  through  all  time, 
When  we  pass  through  that  happiest  clime, 

Which  we  leave  in  the  rear, 
When  no  clouds  came,  or  sunshine  between, 
Or  the  sunbeams  of  life  for  to  screen, 

In  those  days  to  all  dear. 

How  we  cling  to  those  days  gone  so  fast 
In  our  memory,  as  long  as  it  lasts, 

And  to  youth  how  we  cling, 
And  the  same  youthful  ways  to  enhance, 
If  with  fair  ones  we  happen  by  chance, 

And  those  days  back  to  bring. 

And  though  faded  the  locks  of  our  hair, 
Still  we  love  for  to  look  on  the  fair, 

With  that  weakness  possessed, 
Which  has  chronic  become,  as  been  said, 
From  those  days  which  are  past  and  now  fled, 

When  we  loved  and  caressed. 


WRITTEN  ON  BECOMING  A  GRANDFATHER.  27 

But  although  as  a  grandpa  I'm  placed, 
They  are  chronic,  and  far  from  effaced  ; 

For  I  still  love  to  be, 
Where  the  form  so  divinely  behest, 
With  those  charming  proportions  possessed, 

Which  I  still  love  to  see. 

And  forget  that  I  am  on  the  test, 

With  a  grandchild  to  make  me  feel  blest, 

With  those  thoughts  so  sublime, 
But  how  can  I  those  days  pass  so  soon, 
When  it  seems  to  me  life  is  but  noon, 

And  the  zenith  of  prime, 

'Tis  a  pleasure,  but  must  hesitate 
For  to  think  of,  and  no\v  contemplate 

On  life's  short  fickle  stream, 
That  the  name  of  a  grandpa  applied, 
With  a  proof  that  cannot  be  denied, 

Or,  can  all  be  a  dream  ? 

But  from  name  I  cannot  stand  aloof, 
In  the  cradle  or  crib  is  the  proof, 

While  I  see  in  those  eyes, 
And  the  same  on  the  forehead  and  face, 
All  the  parental  features  can  trace 

In  that  babe  where  it  lies. 

But,  when  grandpa  is  called,  I  look  round 
For  to  see  who  is  meant  by  that  sound, 

Some  one  else  it  may  be, 
But  in  vain,  for  the  look  is  transfixed 
On  myself,  and  cannot  become  mixed, 

But  is  all  meant  for  me. 

Then  I  glance  at  the  babe  which  has  done, 
In  its  innocence,  still  as  the  one 

Which  has  started  the  fame, 
While  unconsious  it  sleeps  there  so  still, 
No  account  for  to  give  for  that  ill, 

Of  this  venerable  name. 


TH1 


- 


28  A   TEIP  FEOM   PANAMA. 

Is  it  possible  now  all  can  say 
He's  a  grandfather  now  every  da 

And  the  name  sounds  u  icouth, 
While  I  still  feel  so  much  like  being  young, 
With  a  weakness  which  to  me  has  clung 

From  the  days  of  my  youth. 

I  can  never,  no  never,  get  o'er, 

Or  the  ways  of  my  youth  quite  ignore, 

And  wherever  I  go, 
'  Those  of  natural  grace  so  sublime 
I'll  still  cherish,  though  it  be  a  crime, 

Whether  grandpa  or  no. 


LINES 

WRITTEN   ON   BOARD   THE    "  SACRAMENTO,"    ON   A    TRIP   FROM 
PANAMA. 

GOD  speed  the  "  Sac  ram  en  to," 
Across  the  ocean's  foam, 
She  bears  the  anxious  onward 

To  meet  their  friends  at  home; 
Where  anxious  hearts  are  waiting 

And  counting  of  the  days, 
By  husbands,  wives  and  children, 
Lit  up  by  hopeful  rays. 

God  speed  the  noble  steamer, 

She  bears  us  nobly  on, 
To  our  port  of  destiny, 

Towards  the  setting  sun. 
She  minds  her  brave  commander, 

On  board  no  fear  or  strife; 
Her  ponderous  iron  muscles 

Stretched  like  a  thing  of  life. 


A   TRIP  FROM   PANAMA.  29 

As  on  we  pass,  the  mountains 

Are  based  upon  the  earth, 
Their  heads  aloft  are  towering 

As  wanting  clearer  breath, 
While  base,  with  thick  miasma, 

Reposing  clouds  effaced; 
There  as  a  tower  of  Nature, 

But  all  a  barren  waste. 

How  Nature  must  have  labored 

To  give  such  mountains  birth, 
To  look  so  grim  through  ages 

Down  on  their  mother  earth; 
There  standing  in  defiance 

Of  ocean  when  it  rage, 
Or  looking  down  in  triumph 

Till  getting  bold  with  age. 

Then  listening  to  the  ocean 

In  silent  awe  so  still, 
Producing  sounds  so  solemn, 

And  air  with  music  fill, 
Which  joins  the  world-wide  anthem 

In  songs  all  round  her  shore, 
This  world -wide  surrounding 

With  music  ever  more. 

What  singing  and  what  sounding 

The  ocean's  shores  make  known, 
Which  fills  the  air  with  music, 

The  great  Creator's  own. 
The  music  must  be  purer, 

For  all  is  pure  within; 
In  oceans'  solemn  anthems 

There's  no  reproach  for  sin. 

There's  no  remorse  for  evil, 

Those  endless  shores  along, 
No  care  or  self  reproaching 

Behind  the  ocean's  song. 


A  TRIP  FROM  PANAMA. 

Continual  she's  singing 
To  her  Creator's  praise, 

For  all  His  works  of  wonder 
He  everywhere  displays. 

What  harmonies  of  nature 

In  that  continual  strain; 
Of  earth  and  sea  in  union 

All  pouring  forth  amain; 
All  round  the  world's  circuit 

Of  earth's  great  sea  with  land, 
For  all  the  numerous  wonders, 

The  great  Creator  planned. 

While  forests'  echoes  sounding 

From  river,  falls  and  rills, 
Comes  sounding  in  the  distance 

Was  coursing  round  the  hills; 
At  times  so  low  and  gentle, 

Throughout  continual  time, 
And  then  arise  enchanting, 

In  sounds  so  pure  divine. 

While  man  joins  in  the  music, 

With  sounds  to  imitate 
The  glorious  sounds  of  nature, 

As  early  heard  and  late; 
With  joyful  songs  and  singing, 

With  songs  of  Nature,  too, 
All  join  the  joyful  chorus 

With  land  and  sea  all  through. 

Yes,  sing  aloud  with  Nature, 

Ye  winds  the  song  convey, 
Let  all  the  earth  be  joyful, 

In  one  continual  lay; 
Pour  forth  the  solemn  chorus 

Throughout  this  world's  sphere, 
With  all  the  songs  of  Nature, 

To  him  who  plac'd  us  here. 


LINES   TO    MES.    HENSHELWOOD.  31 

LINES 

WRITTEN  TO  MRS.  HENSHELWOOD  ON  HER  TARRY  IX  SAN  JOSE 
AFTER  THE  WEDDING  OF  MR.  GEORGE  SCOTT  AND  MISS 
JOE  HEART;  AND  AFTER  THEY  HAD  LEFT  SAN  JOSE  AND 
HAD  GONE  TO  SCOTLAND  ON  THEIR  WEDDING  TOUR. 

NOW  what  keeps  you  away, 
In  the  town  San  Jose, 
From  the  prattle  of  Joe  on  comlummas  ? 
And  where  all  of  the  rest 
Do  join  in  the  request, 
In  these  long,  lonesome  nights  from  poor  Thomas^ 

Now,  as  aunty  is  gone, 

And  poor  Maggie's  alone, 
And  for  Ellen,  she's  cross  as  old  Harry! 

And  as  Medas  away 

Now  the  most  of  the  day, 
And  now,  why  there,  in  San  Jose  tarry  ? 

If  you  think  of  the  past, 

It  was  Saturday  last, 
It  was  Willie  you  told  you  were  coming, 

And  then  word  came  along, 

Which  made  all  faces  long, 
And  the  time  which  you  set  was  sent  humming. 

Now  the  business  is  fair, 

On  the  corner  or  square, 
But  uncertainties  make  us  all  frenzie, 

For  on  Wendesday,  they  say — 

Yes,  they  got  it  some  way, 
That  to  meet  you  went  Misses  McKenzie. 

If  you  stay  there  so  long, 

In  those  gardens  among, 
And  those  trees,  with  their  fruit  nearly  ripened, 

Coming  back  to  this  town, 

Where  the  sand-hills  still  frown — 
With  such  contrast,  you'll  nearly  get  frightened. 


32  LINES  TO  MBS.    HENSHELWOOD. 

Now  the  wedding  is  o'er, 

And  what  is  there  more 
For  to  keep  you  away,  or  what  pleasure  ? 

For  you  saw  them  both  start,. 

And  Joe  part  with  her  heart, 
And  how  proudly  George  bore  off  his  treasure. 

And  by  this  they  are  far 

On  the  mountains,  by  car, 
Where  they  traveled  Nvith  Smith,  the  Professor, 

Bound  for  College  McGee; 

They  may  all  go  to  sea, 
But  the  sea  may  become  the  transgressor. 

Now  a  letter  has  come 

For  yourself,  here  at  home, 
And  from  George,  which  he  wrote  when  ascending 

O'er  the  high  altitude 

Of  a  "Wyoming  rude, 
Where  his  time,  in  delight,  he  was  spending. 

The  Professor,  at  first, 

Did  not  care  for  to  trust 
To  a  taste  for  to  make  him  feel  better; 

But,  when  yet  in  the  mood, 

He  bethought  it  was  good 
For  his  lips  for  to  keep  something  wetter. 

And  by  this  they're  away, 

O'er  the  ocean's  white  spray, 
For  the  land  of  the  rose  and  the  thistle; 

From  the  steam  cars,  which  shakes, 

For  the  old  land  of  cakes; 
From  the  sparks  and  the  sound  of  the  whistle. 

And  approaching  the  rills, 

And  the  heath-covered  hills, 
And  which  Nature's  own  bard  long  have  vented,. 

Did  a  Scott  take  a  start, 

And  take  with  him  a  Heart, 
To  for  better  for  worse  be  contented. 


EMPEROR  NORTON   THE   FIRST.  33 


THE  REIGN  OF  EMPEROR   NORTON  THE 
FIRST. 

r  I  ^HERE'S  no  Empire  or  people  can  boast, 
JL  Or  can  say,  as  they  can  on  this  coast, 

That  they  cannot  complain 

Of  their  Emperor's  reign, 

But  is  blest  with  a  peace,  \vhich  his  subjects  display. 
Arbitrary  his  rulings  what  no  one  can  say. 

There's  no  Empire  so  happy  on  earth, 
As  the  Empire  he  has*  given  birth, 

On  the  lands  and  domain 

O'er  which  he  does  reign, 
In  his  island  of  sea,  if  had  but  embraced 
Poor,    old  Ireland,    which    long  has  remained   so 
misplaced. 

Some  will  say  that  ihey,  then  would  complain, 
If  our  Emperor  did  them  retain 

In  his  Empire  of  State; 

For  they're  disconsolate, 

And  a  morbid  dislike  to  all  monarchs  disclose, 
His  majestic  sereneness  would  surely  oppose. 

He  is  happy  now,  just  as  he  reigns, 

And  the  spread  of  his  Empire  ne'er  fains, 

Looking  North  now  afar, 

To  the  land  of  the  Czar; 
And  no  jealous  emotions  to  others  does  run — 
Is  the  happiest  Emperor  under  the  sun. 

A  millenium  reign  he  has  had, 

For  no  war  was  declared,  which  is  sad; 

Nor  the  horrors  of  war 

Is  ere  heard  from  afar, 

With  those  terrible  charges  for  honor  and  fame, 
Ere  has  tarnished  or  soiled  his  Imperial  name. 


34:  EMPEROR  NORTON   THE   FIRST. 

Many  monarchs  would  covet  his  place, 
When  the  ways  of  their  life  they  do  trace; 
With  remorse  and  with  pain, 
For  the  number  they've  slain 
Through  their  strife  and   their  battles,   and   all  of 

their  deeds 

Lurking  still  in  their  bosoms,  the  effect  and  the 
seeds. 

While  there  is  nothing  of  that  to  disturb 
In  his  majesty's  mind,  or  to  curb; 

But  as  calm  as  a  lake, 

He  just  reigns  for  the  sake 

Of  being  Emperor  Norton,  with  Empire  his  own, 
Over  parts  of  Creation  to  himself  is  best  known. 

He  has  long  been  an  Emperor  here, 
O'er  this  country  and  land  of  this  sphere; 

San  Francisco,  'tis  true, 

He  has  seen  her  all  through, 
Her  great  trials  in  uniform,  so-  all  may  know 
That  he's  Emperor  Norton,  whereever  he  go. 

And  at  home,  in  all  circles  of  life, 
And  without  either  Empress  or  wife; 

And  admitted  by  all 

At  his  beck  and  his  call; 
And  is  seen  in  the  Halls  Legislative  at  times, 
And  at  others  where  reading  and  singing  of  hymns. 

In  a  public  or  private  display 

No  one  thinks  for  to  question  or  say, 

That  his  highness  is  there,. 

With  the  young  and  the  fair, 

Looking  on  with  sereneness,  in  Royalty  born,       ^ 
And  is  never  indignant,  or  looking  in  scorn. 

San  Francisco  has  emblems  she  can. 
And  can  count  on  as  her's  to  a  man, 
And  the  Emperor's  one. 


WOMAN.  35 

Never  long  time  is  gone, 

Or  away  out  of  sight,  for  he  soon  would  be  missed, 
For  he's  one  of  the  oldest  of  sons  on  her  list 

And  now  long  may  he  reign  to  employ, 
Those  good  tables  of  lunch  he  enjoy. 

O'er  his  city  and  ours, 

Where  his  happiest  hours, 

Where  his  first  proclamation  was  issued  at  large, 
To  his  subjects  far  off,  which  he  still  holds  in  charge. 

There  is  one  thing  which  still  may  be  bad, 
In  his  Empire,  some  trouble  may  add, 

If  he  passes  away — 

He  can't  always  here  stay — 
And  an   heir,   that's  apparent,  there's  none  to  be 

seen, 
May  embarrass  his  Empire,  and  trouble  them  keen. 

But  as  trouble  comes  soon  enough  too, 
And  an  heir  may  be  had  which  will  do, 

We  will  hope  for  the  best, 

If  he  goes  to  his  rest, 

To  an  Empire  more  real  and  certain  than  now, 
If,  at  all,  is  more  certain,  which  all  will  allow. 


WOMAN, 

WITH  Nature's  impress  how  divine, 
With  all  now  first  in  being ; 
Of  all  the  harmonies  sublime 

Which  harmonize  on  seeing, 
What  is  there  of  this  earthly  form 
So  much  our  planet  does  adorn, 
Or  does  refine, 
As  woman  kind  ? 


36  WOMAN. 

She  like  the  rosebud  when  it  springs^ 

So  pure  in  human  favor, 
When  opening  in  the  sunlight  brings 

To  air  its  cented  flavor ; 
Thine  blooming  as  the  full-blown  rose, 
With  features  traceable  as  those 
Of  ancestors 
Come  down  in  hers. 

How  conscious  of  retiring  grace,. 

So  modestly  and  youthful, 
Expression  of  angelic  face 
So  innocent  and  truthful, 
Strikes  man  with  reverence  to  know 
That  she  for  him  was  placed  below: 
To  love  so  well 
No  tongue  can  tell. 

What  wonder  then  when  angels  seen, 

They  are  in  female  beauty, 
While  artists'  aim,  have  always  been 

To  make  it  still  ttaeir  duty 
To  trace  her  from  divinity,. 
They  all  with  one  affinity 
Angels  adorn 
In  female  form. 

What  wonder  then  the  gods  can  see- 
In  angel  forms  so  human, 
Or  that  the  star-lit  spheres  might  be 

Adorned  by  angel  woman » 
For  Paradise  would  still  be  lost 
To  all  creation — man  the  most, 
If  woman  fair 
Was  wanting  there. 

And  what  would  be  this  rolling  earth, 
With  all  its  wondrous  creatures, 

So  full  of  Nature's  glowing  mirth 
In  all  its  wondrous  features, 


WOMAN.  37 

With  ponderous  hills  and  valleys  green, 
If  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen, 

Or  notes  so  choice 

In  woman's  voice. 

IJer  human  heart  where'r  she  goes, 

Ne'er  waits  she  till  to-morrow, 
But  moved  in  grief  for  human  woes, 

With  balm  for  human  sorrows, 
As  round  the  couch  with  gentle  tread, 
Is  bound  to  soothe  the  heart  and  head, 
As  woman  can 
For  dying  man. 

This  earth  again  would  still  be  void 

As  once  when  so  alarming, 
If  mankind  here  were  unalloyed 

With  woman's  grace  so  charming; 
For  light  and  life  and  all  of  birth, 
Is  brightened  here  by  woman's  worth; 
Earth  to  adorn 
Was  woman  born. 

And  home  would  be  no  home  at  all 

Without  the  lamp  is  burning, 
Or  in  that  home  no  infant  call 

That  papa  is  returning; 
And  she  reclining  on  the  gate, 
With  gentle  chide  for  being  late, 
And  way  is  led 
To  table  spread. 

With  gentle  tread  and  spirit  meek, 
And  pure  the  cheek  and  temple, 
Still  in  her  sphere  will  always  seek 

To  fill  her  place  so  gentle, 
With  home  and  children  gentle  words, 
As  mothers  of  both  men  and  lords, 
In  queenly  pride 
There  to  preside. 


38  THE   SNOW. 


THE  SNOW  AND  THE  MOUNTAIN  STREAMS 
COMPARED  TO  THE  LOWLY. 

OH,  the  pure  drifting  snow, 
See  how  pure  it  does  blow, 
O'er  the  forests  and  woods  and  the  hill, 
As  it  lodge  on  the  branch 
Of  the  oak  tree  so  staunch, 
With  the  home  of  the  bird,  Whip-poor-will. 

Coming  down  from  on  high, 

Coming  nearer  and  nigh, 
Through  the  winds  in  their  hurricanes  blast, 

O'er  that  cottage  and  roof, 

Where  it  stands  all  aloof, 
Covered  o'er  from  the  snow  on  it  cast. 

How  it  tempers  the  air, 

For  the  young  and  the  fair, 
By  its  winds,  through  the  snow  and  the  frost, 

Giving  vigor  to  all, 

Through  the  trees,  growing  tall, 
Till  away  in  the  tropics  it's  lost. 

With  its  cold,  frosty  breeze, 

Makes  the  rivers  all  freeze, 
Their  pure  liquid  is  changed  by  the  snow; 

And  the  ice  on  the  pond, 

O'er  its  surface  so  fond, 
Where  they're  gliding  in  joy,  to  and  fro. 

Made  so  pure  and  so  white 

By  the  frost  of  the  night, 
Lies  the  snow  over  all  on  the  ground, 

With  that  color  so  clear 

As  the  corpse  on  the  bier, 
With  a  winding-sheet  wrapped  all  around. 


THE   SNOW.  39 

How  it  drifts  from  on  high 

As  the  winter  comes  nigh, 
And  makes  light  of  the  dark-colored  ground ; 

What  a  contrast  appear 
When  the  snow,  bright  and  clear, 
Drifts  away  by  itself  in  a  mound . 

How  the  icicles  drop, 

And  the  shutters  do  flop, 
And  the  storm  makes  the  forest  trees  bow, 

And  the  earth  covered  o'er 

Out  of  sight  to  restore 
And  give  rest  to  the  land  and  the  plow. 

Through  the  winter's  long  stay 

Snow  has  all  things  its  way, 
And  possession  of  lands  broad  and  free, 

Till  the  sun  gets  so  bold, 

Out  no  longer  can  hold, 
Shrinks  away  in  the  streams  to  the  sea. 

What  comparison  be 

More  alike  unto  thee, 
O,  thou  beautiful  snow  flakes  around, 

Than  the  beauteous  and  bright 

Before  knowing  a  blight, 
Or  a  world  before  it  has  frowned  ? 

O,  the  world's  cold  damp, 

How  it  follows  the  tramp, 
Or  the  snow,  when  it's  pressed  down  below, 

What  a  change  does  it  make 

On  the  pure  fallen  flake, 
When  trod  down  by  the  world  as  it  go. 

As  the  snow  from  its  source, 

Or  its  natural  course, 
To  the  beautiful  springs  up  so  fair, 

As  with  snow  on  their  cheek, 

Or  the  rose-buds  which  seek 
For  to  bloom  while  the  snow-drops  are  there. 


40  THE   SNOW. 

Once  as  pure  as  the  snow, 

Or  a  fount  where  it  flow, 
Was  that  creature,  now  seen  on  the  street, 

With  her  looks  so  downcast 

For  her  sorrowful  past, 
Which  her  sex  do  all  shun  when  they  meet. 

In  the  pool  and  the  slum, 

From  the  venom  of  rum, 
On  her  cheeks,  once  as  pure  as  the  snow; 

Once  her  father's  delight, 

With  her  eyes  sparkling  bright 
In  her  head  as  she  moves  to  and  fro. 

Yes,  she  once  was  so  dear,   . 

That  their  life  she  did  cheer; 
If  the  joy  and  the  mirth  she  possessed, 

Or  that  natural  joy, 

Which  themselves  did  employ 
For  to  make  her  beloved  and  caressed. 

With  what  love  and  what  care 

And  devotion  did  share, 
Through  those  days  when  so  tender  of  years; 

How  her  parents  did  watch 

All  her  sayings  to  catch 
In  her  joyful  and  child-like  career. 

And  if  aught  ere  but  joy 

Did  their  daughter  annoy, 
With  what  trouble  and  sorrow  and  fears 

In  a  mother  uprise 

In  foreboding  surmise, 
And  would  moisten  her  pillow  in  tears. 

With  what  joy  and  what  pride, 

Or  what  had  they  beside, 
For  their  daughter  to  them  was  their  all, 

And  when  winter  appears, 

Or  their  autumn  of  years, 
As  the  trees  on  the  coming  of  fall. 


THE   SNOW.  41 

As  they  looked  on  the  fair, 

And  on  which  the  cold  air 
Could  not  pass  or  blow  harshly  upon, 

As  a  rose  budding  forth, 

Making  graceful  this  earth, 
Full  of  promise  and  hope  to  look  on. 

Now  how  can  this  all  be, 

On  the  street  her  we  see, 
As  she  passes  along  to  descry, 

O  how  altered  she  looks 

From  the  corner  and  nooks 
For  to  see  who  and  whom  she  can  spy. 

Now  can  this  be  all  so? 

Has  she  fallen  so  low 
From  her  parents,  her  home  and  all  hope, 

From  her  parents  long  gone, 

To  be  left  all  alone 
In  this  world  with  vileness  to  cope  ? 

In  the  vilest  of  ways 

She  unfortunate  strays, 
In  the  ways  of  pollution,  and  then 

In  her  scarlet  she  go, 

So  the  world  may  know 
She  belongs  to  some  infamous  den. 

On  the  street  as  she  pass 

She  is  shunned  by  the  mass, 
And  the  virtuous  soon  her  descry, 

As  she  passes  along 

In  the  midst  of  the  throng, 
For  to  see  who  or  whom  she  can  spy. 

And  her  life's  so  impure 

The  unwary  allure ; 
In  her  wantonous  ways  now  is  tossed, 

By  pollution  and  shame 

Made  disgrace  to  her  name, 
To  the  ways  of  all  purity  lost. 


THE   SNOW. 

Can  she  now  as  the  snow, 

When  so  trod  down  below, 
As  it  passes  along  from  the  throng 

On  its  way  to  restore, 

On  that  far  distant  shore, 
Where  it  joins  in  the  ocean's  great  song. 

Yes,  the  source  of  the  low, 

When  trod  down  as  the  snow, 
All  will  find  out  the  same  as  the  sleet, 

In  that  ocean's  great  main 

Will  be  lost  that  dark  stain 
When  trod  down  as  the  snow  and  the  sleet. 

And  in  joy  join  again 

With  that  clear  rolling  main 
In  the  glory  and  depths  of  the  sea, 

Going  out  at  her  ease, 

Coming  back  when  she  please, 
Now  so  pure,  now  so  clear,  now  so  free. 


FORCE   OF    HABIT. 

In  California's  early  days, 

As  restless  all  with  restless  ways, 

In  numbers  gathered  here 
To  better  their  financial  state, 
And  trusting  fortune's  fickle  fate, 
Had  come  from  far  and  near, 
But  not  to  stay  to  make  it  late  or  long, 
From  homes  and  wives  and  children's  playful  song. 

The  spirit  of  unrest  began 

While  tracing  round  our  golden  land 

And  packing  round  the  hills 
To  prospect  where  the  gold  was  found, 
And  searching  for  the  place  which  crowned 


THE   SNOW.  43 

The  miner  of  all  ills, 

While  echoes  of  some  richer,  startling  news, 
Of  some  rich  strike  which  that  unrest  diffuse. 

The  efforts,  after  years  so  spent, 
To  settle  down,  needs  no  comment; 

To  say  at  least  it  leaves 
The  self-same  inclinations  still 
To  travel  here  and  there  at  will, 

Which  very  often  grieves, 
And  very  often  is  by  habit's  snares 
Led  on  to  evil  practice  unawares. 

O,  force  of  habits,  how  you  dwell 
In  us  poor  mortals,  tongue  can't  tell, 

Nor  can  it  ere  be  told 
How  pregnant  of  those  evil  ways 
WThich  we  are  prone  to  in  those  days 

When  it  gets  fairly  late, 
And  when  the  seeds  of  habits  thus  we  sow 
Impossible  for  us  to  them  outgrow. 

They  take  deep  root  in  Nature's  soil, 
Then  we  may  try  and  we  may  toil, 

Uproot  them  all  in  vain; 
They  still  will  sprout  as  doth  the  weed, 
Which  chokes  the  growth  of  better  seed, 

Which  still  we  may  retain, 
From  mother's  care  and  early  teachings  left, 
In  us  remain,  from  early  days  bereft. 

From  which  that  subtle  root,  Remorse, 
Imbedded  in  us  with  such  force, 

We  never  can  uproot, 
Which  tells  us  to  the  bitter  end 
For  ways  of  life  to  make  amend, 

For  vagaries  we  moot, 
Which  usefulness  in  life  soon  overawe, 
The  cords  of  which  we  on  ourselves  do  draw. 


44  THE   SNOW. 

Then  Nature's  parent  will  beseech, 
Reversed  to  all  his  laws  by  breach 

Of  covenant  and  will, 
For  pardon  for  those  habits  wrong 
Which  in  us  now  have  grown  so  long; 

His  laws  cannot  fulfill; 
But  in  our  efforts  we  so  often  fail, 
Our  common  supplications  growing  stale. 

But  all  is  good,  for  that  was  said 

When  man  and  all  this  world  was  made, 

With  nothing  to  oppose. 
This  earthly  globe  can  ne'er  expand, 
There's  nothing  less  of  sea  or  land 

That  aught  did  e'er  disclose, 

Same  world  and  weight,  when  at  that  time  was  said, 
That  all  was  good,  that  time  the  world  was  made. 

There  may  be  change  on  earth  among, 
By  Nature's  laws  to  source  of  wrong, 

Our  mother  earth  possess, 
But  still  it  all  belongs  the  same, 
To  that  same  earth  and  earthly  frame 

No  particle  is  less; 

But  still  the  same  when  Adam  on  it  stood, 
When  it  was  made  and  all  pronounced  as  good. 


TIN  WEDDING.  45 


LINES 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  CELEBRATION  OF  A  TIN  WEDDING,  AND  READ 
AT  THE  SURPRISE  PARTY  PRESENTING  THE  DONEES  WITH 
THEIR  TINWARE. 

WHEN  earth  and  sea  from  nothing  came 
So  wonderfully  grand ! 
The  marvelous  work  was  not  complete 

Until  the  creature  man 
Was  called  to  life  as  lord  of  all, 
In  paradise  before  the  fall. 

The  great  Creator  of  our  earth 

Did  see  it  was  not  best 
For  man,  the  first  and  noblest  work, 

To  live  alone  unblest; 
Then  while  asleep,  or  did  awake, 
He  from  his  side  a  rib  did  take. 

And  formed  it  into  woman  kind 

With  symmetry  divine, 
With  flesh  and  bone  the  same  as  man; 

So  they  may  still  incline 
Towards  each  other  while  they  live, 
And  hand  in  wedlock  promise  give. 

With  mutual  admiration  then, 

What  wonder  we  still  look 
For  mates,  for  we  their  offspring  are, 

Came  down  life's  stream  or  brook; 
And  make  the  vow  divinely  grand, 
By  Christian  dispensation  planned. 

And  marriages  with  bride  and  groom 

So  often  grace  our  hearth, 
Comes  down  through  all  posterity 

To  be  of  so  much  worth; 
And  ministers  devoutly  stand 
To  pledge  each  other  heart  and  hand 


46  TIN   WEDDING. 

This  marriage  then  is  called  the  first, 

And  is  considered  good; 
When  early  days  are  past  and  gone 

And  wedding  reached  called  wood, 
Or  "wooden  wedding/'  as  we  say, 
With  wooden  ware  and  wooden  tray. 

This  wedding  has  been  reached  by  those 

We  celebrate  to-night, 
Is  past  and  gone  with  years  gone  by 

In  time  and  all  its  flight; 
And  as  we  meet  to  night  as  kin, 
We  meet  to  celebrate  the  tin. 

Tin  Wedding  now;  the  time  is  reached, 

A  metal  not  so  base 
For  cooking  puddings,  cakes  and  pies 

So  useful  in  its  place; 
A  home  is  not  the  same  within, 
Without  it's  well  supplied  with  tin. 

And  when  the  time  for  silver  comes 

As  tin  has  come  to-night, 
We'll  friends  and  kindred  be  the  same, 

And  all  things  be  all  right, 
And  may  the  lapse  of  years  unfold 
r\  he  time  in  which  to  have  your  GOLD. 


MISSION  HILLS,  SAN  FRANCISCO.  47 


MISSION   HILLS,  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

BLOW  on  ye  winds,  and  fogs  roll  o'er 
Your  dloud-capped    hills,  which  marks  that 
shore; 

Those  range  of  mountains  seen, 
They're  soaring  long  and  nothing  marred, 
And  standing  long  as  keeping  guard 
For  this  Pacific  queen. 

You  stand  as  sentinels  of  war, 

When  worn  by  time  and  care  which  mar 

The  days  of  youth  and  prime; 
Becoming  old  and  worn  and  sear 
Through  time,  while  passing  year  by  year 

Their  period  of  time. 

No  green  nor  verdure  there  abounds, 
No  evergreen  thy  head  surrounds, 

Nor  aught  but  looking  bare; 
Though  Nature  others  may  have  bound 
With  evergreens  their  heads  around, 

She  nothing  you  could  spare. 

Not  even  on  thy  care-worn  face, 
Scarce  lines  of  vegetation  trace, 

Yet  firm  you  stand  as  placed, 
With  earnest  same  and  sterling  look; 
By  all  creation  long  forsook, 

Is  on  thy  visage  traced. 

You  have  so  long  deserted  been, 
And  felt  the  situation  keen, 

By  human  beings  all, 
Who  sought  more  genial  place  and  hills, 
To  dwell  by  winding  paths  and  rilis, 

And  garden  trees  so  tall. 


48  MISSION  HILLS,  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

While  isolated  and  away, 
Forsook  by  nature  in  array, 

You've  stood  yet^rm  and  true, 
And  frowns  of  all  was  unaware, 
Forgot,  forsaken,  standing  there, 

Have  nothing  now  to  rue. 

With  firmness  you  have  stood  the  test, 
Long  washed  by  ocean's  spray  and  crest, 

And  that  still  solemn  sound, 
As  Nature's  works  did  thee  detail 
For  that  continual  lonesome  wail 

Which  at  thy  shrine  is  found. 

Nor  had  thy  weatherbeaten  brow 
One  tree  to  deck  ere  since  or  now, 

Or  singing  birds  to  cheer 
Thy  lonesome  path;  but  that  same  sound, 
One  doleful  note  the  ages  round, 

Through  time  so  far  in  rear. 

How  long  in  monumental  stage 
You've  stood  to  check  that  ocean's  rage 

Through  time,  no  one  can  tell; 
Or  since  you've  raised  your  fearless  dome, 
And  ocean  told  no  further  come, 

Although  with  rage  did  swell. 

Deserted  and  long  left  alone, 
For  centuries  there  has  been  none 

To  cheer  thy  lonesome  night; 
How  dismal  then  has  been  the  time 
Through  ages  in  thy  lonesome  clime, 

Through  Time's  continual  flight. 

Till  long  and  last  time  did  unfold 
Thy  sister  mountain's  virgin  gold 

More  favored  than  thyself, 
By  nature  in  their  bosom  hid, 
And  all  their  streams  and  brooks  amid, 

And  on  their  rocky  shelf. 


MISSION   HILLS,  SAN  FRANCISCO.  49 

A  gleam  of  hope  then  must  have  come 
Across  thy  path  long  left  alone, 

And  looking  on  thy  past, 
And  on  thy  valleys  looking  bare, 
And  on  thy  desert  sand-hills'  stare, 

A  gleam  of  hope  must  cast. 

Reflecting  on  thy  dismal  kt, 
As  here  by  all  the  world  forgot, 

That  yet  the  time  may  greet 
That  all  this  desert-like  frontier, 
May  some  day  come  from  far  and  near 

And  nestle  at  thy  feet. 

And  from  thy  dreary  spell  to  wake 
To  human  voices  and  partake 

Of  man's  progressive  way, 
For  long  you've  been  in  that  same  state, 
No  progress  made,  by  change,  by  fate, 

But  in  sad  lethargy. 

But  who  can  tell  what  fate  may  do, 
When  patience  stands  so  firm  and  true, 

Or  destiny  have  planned, 
For  to  relieve  a  lonesome  path, 
Befogged  or  clouded  long  it  hath, 

So  long  been  placed  to  stand. 

Now  years  hast  past  and  time  has  gone, 
And  many  a  cottage,  one  by  one, 

Has  gathered  round  thy  base, 
And  under  thy  protecting  care, 
From  all  the  world  and  everywhere 

The  human  faces  trace. 

And  from  thy  valleys  echoes  rise 
Of  progress  and  the  whistle's  cries; 

Of  haste  and  speed  which  tells 
That  now  you  stand  in  union  bands 
With  Eastern  mountains,  hills  and  lands, 

Where  other  oceans  swell. 
3 


50  MISSION  HILLS,  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

With  cottages  which  dot  all  o'er, 
Thy  surface  now  is  figured  o'er, 

And  domes  and  spires  ascends, 
To  show  thy  barren  hills  and  foot 
Is  fertile,  for  they've  taken  root, 

Which  lasts  when  all  shall  end. 

There  nothing  was  while  thus  forsook, 
For  to  inspire  poetic  look; 

Not  as  those  mountains  nigh, 
Which  did  poetic  song  inspire, 
Which  Nature  decked  but  to  admire; 

Sierra's  mountains  high. 

Where  birds  join  in  the  coral  song, 
In  woods  and  hills  the  glad  year  long, 

With  songs  in  happy  glee, 
Which  makes  the  world  poetic  feel, 
Through  cunning  natures  gently  steal, 

In  joy  with  all  to  be. 

But  standing  bare,  of  verdure  stripped, 
As  winter  frosts  her  carpet  nipped 

When  putting  forth  her  green 
But  for  a  day,  then  disappear, 
Leaves  that  same  color  bold  and  sere, 

Is  still  for  to  be  seen. 

But  as  been  said,  you've  stood  the  test, 
And  looking  on  your  ocean  west, 

While  on  its  bosom  ride 
The  shipping  from  all  nations  grand, 
In  passing  in  and  out  command 

With  triumph  and  with  pride. 

And  on  thy  bay  so  widely  spread, 
For  commerce  and  to  commerce  wed 

Throughout  this  world  around; 
And  view  the  works  of  man  afloat 
From  mountain  tops  so  once  remote, 

Now  to  all  nations  bound. 


CALIFORNIA  IN   EARLY  TIMES.  51 

O,  Mission  Hills!  by  ocean  side, 
By  Nature  placed  there  to  preside 

O'er  this  great  city's  fate, 
Thy  destiny  remotely  cast, 
Thy  time  has  come  at  long,  at  last, 

In  majesty  of  state. 

How  long  those  golden  sunsets  blue, 
Has  luster  shed  in  golden  hue 

Upon  your  western  slope, 
Which  poet's  bosoms  still  inspire, 
And  artists  copy  and  admire, 

And  still  with  Nature  cope. 

Thy  Mission  on  a  desert  thrown, 
Was  long  by  mortal  never  known, 

But  good  when  it  can  be. 
For  when  thy  hills,  from  bay  to  shore, 
With  homes  and  cots  are  covered  o'er, 

Thy  Mission  all  can  see. 


THE  WESTERN  MAN'S  TRAVELS  TO  CALIFOR- 
NIA IN  EARLY  TIMES,  AND  BACK  TO 
SAN  FRANCISCO 

IN  early  days,  near  forty-nine, 
When  gold  was  plenty,  coarse  and  fine, 
On  rivers  and  ravines, 
When  miners  came  from  far  and  near, 
And  brought  with  them  their  food  and  cheer, 

Which  chiefly  was  of  beans; 
For  beans  was  made  the  early  staff  of  life, 
With  plate  of  tin  and  spoon,  perhaps  a  knife. 

There  came  across  the  plains  which  then, 
And  from  his  western  home  as  when 

He  left  his  frontier  ways 
To  travel  further  west  out  here 


52  CALIFORNIA  IN   EARLY  TIMES. 

For  the  far  Western  Hemisphere, 

All  in  those  golden  days; 
He  never  saw  a  ship  on  sea  afloat, 
Or  ocean  wave  which  o'er  the  rocks  does  gloat. 

Nor  never  saw  a  fish  nor  sail, 

But  that  same  plow  and  that  same  flail, 

Until  he  came  to  town; 
,  At  such  a  distance  o'er  the  hills, 

Across  the  plains  and  purling  rills, 

While  sunburnt  dark  and  brown, 
A  youth  he  came  from  sunny  south,  or  west, 
From  land  of  childhood  which  he  loved  the  best. 

His  journey  was  not  at  an  end 
Till  all  is  seen  what  time  he  spend 

In  looking  at  the  sights, 
And  ships  and  steamers  as  they  play 
O'er  San  Francisco's  spreading  bay, 

Which  fill  him  with  delights; 
To  see  the  motion  of  the  steamer's  wheels, 
While  wonder,  admiration,  o'er  him  steals. 

Thinks  how  the  motion  of  the  steam 
Is  made  to  work  on  that  great  beam; 

And  that  great  iron  arm, 
Clasped  like  a  thing  of  life  is  stretched, 
While  up  and  down  the  crank  is  fetched, 

Like  something  on  his  farm 
Which   dreams  through  life,  had  oft  annoyed  in 

rest, 
Or  that  great  locust  on  his  greens  out  west. 

Before  he  goes  back  to  the  mines 
To  ocean  beach  he  still  inclines 

To  hear  the  ocean's  roar; 
Went  on  the  rocks  where  bask  the  seals, 
Their  wonder  greater  o'er  him  steals 

He  never  felt  before, 


CALIFORNIA  IN  EARLY  TIMES.  53 

For  on  the  very  ocean's  caves  and  crest 
He  finds  a — what  is  it  ? — a  lion's  nest. 

They  have  no  horns  that  he  can  see, 
They  have  no  limbs — what  can  they  be  ? 

How  wonderfully  planned, 
And  flopping  up  and  down  turn  o'er; 
Like  lions  as  a  lion  roar, 

But  have  no  feet  to  stand; 
Some  heavy  as  the  body  of  a  steer, 
He  now  must  think  the  critters  rather  queer. 

Now  in  reflection  turns  away 
From  them;  he  cannot  longer  stay 

To  hear  them  howl  or  bark, 
But  now  the  golden  field  must  seek; 
And  filled  with  wonder  looking  meek, 

Is  bound  to  make  his  mark, 
With  pick  and  shovel,  on  the  river  side, 

But  hopes  again  to  see  that  ocean  wide. 

And  then  find  out  what  they  can  be, 
Or  if  they  live  on  land  or  sea. 

Perhaps  there  is  within 
That  ocean  great  some  bigger  things, 
In  him  with  wonder  to  him  clings 

And  when  he  gets  some  tin, 
The  land  and  sea,  and  what  there  is  or  seen 
He's  bound  to  see,  for  now  he's  rather  green. 

He  works  away  and  finds  some  dust; 
His  pile  is  made,  and  now  he  must 

Write  home  to  tell  his  friends 
His  luck  is  good,  and  soon  will  come 
To  see  his  friends  and  all  at  home 

Across  the  plains,  which  sends 
A  thrill  of  pleasure  through  his  frame  in  veiw, 
To  think  to  meet  his  friends,  his  own  dear  Sue. 


54  CALIFORNIA  IN  EARLY  TIMES. 

Yes,  off  across  the  plains  again, 
Where  under  trees  has  often  lain, 

His  farm  again  to  reach; 
At  last  is  back  from  journey  long, 
Now  all  rejoicing,  in  the  throng, 

Stands  Sue  at  quite  a  breach, 
For  in  his  absence  social  song  encored, 
Has  changed  her  heart,  another  she  adored. 

He  settled  down,  some  years  thus  spent, 
And  told  all  he  had  seen,  and  meant 

Some  day  to  come  again 
To  see  the  city  far  out  west, 
And  mingle  in  among  the  rest 

Of  mankind,  not  abstain 
From  knowing  what  there  is  in  city  life; 
Perchance  he  might  take  back  with  him  a  wife. 

For  that  young  girl  was  now  engaged, 
Which  made  him  feel  so  much  enraged. 

When  he  was  far  away 
A  deacon's  son  had  stole  a  march 
On  him,  with  shirt  made  white  with  starch, 

Therefore  he  cannot  stay. 
And  now  the  golden  shores  again  to  pan, 
Perhaps  enjoy  himself  as  others  can. 

He  says,  won't  Sue  feel  bad  to  see 
Me  home  with  city  wife;  and  she 

With  jealous  eyes  will  look, 
To  see  her  in  the  fashion  dressed, 
In  glossy  silks  and  satins  pressed 

With  Jonathan  in  hook; 
To  think  of  what  a  dash  in  fashion's  lore, 
With  her  1*11  make  in  passing  deacon's  door. 

He's  rich  enough,  his  farm  and  pile, 
In  west  can  live  in  honest  style; 

Now  back  to  see  the  bay, 
And  San  Francisco  large  has  grown 


CALIFORNIA  IN  EAKLY  TIMES.  55 

Since  he  has  seen  it,  he  must  own — 

With  wonder,  now  must  say — 
To  see  the  spires  and  towers  ascend  so  high, 
Makes  him  look  back  on  frontier  life  and  sigh. 

He  thinks  then  to  himself  and  say, 
If  I  am  here  to  stop  or  stay 

I  want  a  beaver  hat; 
A  beaver  hat,  with  suit  of  brown, 
So  when  I'm  passing  through  this  town, 

Not  hear  the  word,  who's  that  ? 
While  passing  through  the  throng  I  often  hear, 
And  beauty  shying  off  as  I  come  near. 

Now  to  the  tailor  goes  to  get, 
To  see  if  anything  will  set 

On  him,  or  find  a  fit; 
When  everything  he  tries  is  small 
Or  short,  for  he  is  large  and  tall, 

But  still  the  tailor's  wit: 
Or  bearded  man,  with  hair  and  color  black, 
Persuaded  him  they  were  a  fit  and  whack. 

He's  in  the  suit  of  black  or  blue, 
The  first  one  which  ere  to  him  clew. 

He  feels  them  very  tight, 
And  hugs  him  close  about  the  arm, 
And  cannot  stoop  for  fear  of  harm, 

Though  tries  with  all  his  might. 
And  tries  to  seat  himself  upon  a  chair, 
But  finds  they  grasp  him  round  and  everywhere. 

Now  wants  to  shape  some  plan  or  way 
To  get  acquainted  while  he  stay, 

For  now  he  wants  a  wife 
Away  with  him  to  live  on  farm. 
Some  city  maiden  might  him  charm, 

And  live  with  him  for  life; 
And  for  this  purpose,  sought  some  one  to  know 
Who  could  him  tell,  what  ladies  want  a  beaux  ? 


56  CALIFORNIA  IN  EARLY  TIMES. 

No  one  he  wanted  who  had  been. 
Or  over  twenty-five  had  seen — 

For  widows  did  not  care — 
And  some  one  not  so  tall  as  he. 
She  might  good  looking  likewise  be, 

His  joys  and  sorrows  share; 
And  one  who  would  not  hesitate  to  go 
To  live  with  him  in  places  high  or  low. 

A  friend  he  made,  with  whom  he  went 
To  visit  those  on  marriage  bent, 

For  George  could  well  him  tell. 
He  asked  what  lady  sits  beside 
The  one  with  bonnet  as  a  bride  ? 

George  say:  That's  Mrs.  Bell. 
She  has  been  married  once  before — bereft; 
Her  present  husband's  gone  away  and  left. 

The  place  they  were  was  at  a  ballr 
And  we  will  call  it  Howard  Hall, 

Where  beauty  did  appear. 
While  Jonathan  and  George  did  sit 
To  see  the  fashions — see  them  flit 

In  fashion's  front  and  rear. 
While  Jonathan  those  questions  George  did  ask; 
While  George  did  answer  him  when  put  to  task. 

He  asks  again,  "What  girl  is  that 
Now  leaning  o'er  with  a  white  hat  ? 

George  says:  That's  Mrs.  Morse. 
She  has  not  got  entirely  free; 
Her  papers  has  not  got  to  be,. 

Or  clear  with  her  divorce. 
But  when  she  does,  she'll  make  a  splendid  wife; 
She's  never  married  been  but  twice  in  life. 

Well,  what  young  girl  is  that,  whose  hair 
Is  o'er  her  shoulders  very  fair, 
And  looking  now  this  way  ? 
O,  that  is  Misses  Mary  Young. 


CALIFORNIA   IN  EARLY   TIMES.  57 

Her  husband  has  an  awfu)  tongue, 

She  could  not  with  him  stay; 
She'll  soon  be  through  the  mill  and  free  again ; 
Her  second  husband's  on  the  raging  main. 

Then  what  young  fair  now  on  the  seat, 
She  looks  so  young,  with  nimble  feet  ? 

O,  that  is  Mrs.  Smith. 
Her  husband  went  away  one  day; 
He  was  her  third  one,  some  do  say: 

He  did  not  have  much  myth. 
But  whether  she  has  been  divorced  or  not 
I  cannot  tell;  he  was  a  drunken  sot. 

I'll  ask  once  more  what  fine  young  maid, 
Who  seems  so  timid  and  afraid 

To  meet  a  stranger,  tell 
She  cannot  ever  married  be  ? 
She's  but  a  child  and  must  be  free; 

She  seems  to  be  a  belle. 
I  cannot  tell  the  name  now  certain  true, 
I  think  the  name  of  her  last  husband's  Shue. 

There  is  but  one  I'll  ask  you  more, 
The  one  whose  hat  is  on  before, 

That  shies  when  I  come  near, 
And  looks  at  you  with  sparkling  glance 
With  those  black  eyes,  as  though  from  France  ? 

O,  that  is  Mrs.  Clear: 

She's  been  engaged,  but  broken  off  some  time  ; 
Her  husband  now  imprisoned  is  for  crime. 

He  says  again  now  to  his  friend, 
His  countryman,  his  ear  to  lend, 

Inquire  he  must  again. 
What  noble  looking  woman's  that 
Who  on  the  seat  beside  you  sat  ? 

Her  name  is  Mrs.  Fain; 

She's  not  divorced  yet  from  her  husband  quite, 
Her  fifth  one  now  is  watching  her  for  spite. 


58  CALIFOBNIA  IN  EABLY  TIMES. 

Well,  who  is  that,  her  cheeks  so  red, 
Who  spoke  to  you  and  turned  and  fled, 

With  frightened  looks  at  me  ? 
Well  I  will  tell  you  all  the  truth; 
Her  name  at  present's  Mrs.  Couth. 

No  more  you  will  her  see; 
The  husband  which  she  married  last  is  round, 
The  other,  too,  is  here  divorced  and  sound. 

We  met  a  girl  by  the  street, 

Her  hair  was  spread  one  solid  sheet; 

She  looked  at  me  and  laughed. 
Now  if  you  tell  me  who  she  is — 
Her  hair  is  dark,  one  solid  phiz  ? 

I  turned  around  and  coughed. 
Well,  that  is  little  Mrs.  Short  I  know; 
Her  second  husband's  not  divorced — no  go. 

My  ebenezer  here  I'll  raise, 

And  I'll  be  darned  if  that  don't  saize 

On  me,  and  now  to  know 
If  all  your  San  Francisco  fair 
Is  all  divorced  and  then  did  stare, 

Why  how  the  world  does  go  I 
If  that's  the  way  the  world  has  gone  of  late, 
I  am  away  behind  its  time  and  state. 

For  in  my  frontier  days  a  wife, 
When  that  was  made  so  during  life, 

To  get  the  second  man 
They  looked  upon  it  bad  enough; 
Indeed  they  thought  it  rather  rough, 

For  woman,  when  she  can, 
To  ever  marry  when  first  husband's  dead, 
It's  thought  the  first  one  haunts  the  second's  bed. 

That's  all  old  women's  talk  and  stuff, 
George  looking  now  a  little  gruff 

To  find  him  as  a  child; 
Why  you  will  never  married  be; 


CALIFOKNIA  IN  EAELY  TIMES.  59 

If  you  but  listen  unto  me, 

A  wife  you'll  get  that's  mild. 
Why  all  the  marriages  are  widows  near, 
Either  divorced  or  husband's  gone  out  here. 

I'll  ne'er  get  married  in  the  mines, 
What  I  was  taught  I  still  incline. 

I'll  try  once  more  your  help: 
There  is  a  lady  lady-like, 
My  mind  and  fancy  much  does  strike, 

If  some  one  does  not  yelp. 
If  you  will  introduce  me  to  her  once, 
I'll  try  and  work  my  way  and  take  my  chance. 

With  all  my  heart,  who  can  she  be  ? 
I'll  take  you  with  me  and  her  see 

This  evening  and  her  meet. 
Her  hair  is  yellow,  blonde  and  red; 
She  surely  never  has  been  wed : 

I  tell  you  she  looks  sweet. 
This  evening  you  may  come  and  her  you'll  see, 
So  you  may  see  she  looks  both  bland  and  free. 

They  went  together  and  did  meet 
The  fair  one  on  the  very  street. 

And  George  her  slightly  knew, 
Enough  to  open  up  the  stream 
Of  love  which  followed  then  by  ream, 

With  vows  for  to  be  true; 
And  married  be  as  soon  as  e'er  they  could; 
He  owned  a  farm  on  which  to  live  they  should. 

One  night  he  saw  her  home,  and  sat 
Beside  her  by  the  rug  or  mat, 

When  she  got  up  to  see; 
And  said,  I  must  my  curls  take 
From  off  my  head,  just  for  your  sake 

Beside  you  I  can  be. 

She  then  appeared  so  altered;  hair  was  gone. 
The  very  head  itself  seemed  not  the  one. 


60  CALIFORNIA  IN  EARLY   TIMES. 

What  hair  there  was  left  on  was  gray, 
And  scattered  o'er  as  in  array 

To  cover  up  the  bare. 
Then  she  sat  down  by  his  new  clothes, 
Upon  the  sofa  as  a  rose, 

But  faded  I  declare. 

Near  passed  away  before  it  is  possessed, 
Or  e'en  before  by  human  hand  been  pressed. 

He  takes  a  look  as  on  the  sly, 

Or  from  his  seat,  now  looking  shy, 

And  thinks,  can  that  be  she  ? 
And  stammers  out,  the  night  is  warm, 
Confound  the  flies,  now,  how  they  swarm. 

He  thinks,  if  e'er  I  see 

Such  change  in  short  acquaintance  as  appear. 
She  drew  her  chair  some  closer  to  him  and  near. 

The  chalk,  a  powder  on  her  face, 
Had  worn  off;  left  one  red  place. 

A  pimpled  face  and  cheek, 
With  eyebrows  of  a  grayish  cast, 
Came  peering  through  the  black  at  last. 

Bnt  still  she  looked  so  meek, 
And  quite  composed  and  happy  with  her  choice, 
The  distance  closed  on  Jonathan,  no  noise. 

He  changed,  his  foot  was  underneath, 
And  turning,  looking  at  her  teeth 

The  upper  ones  had  fell, 
And  left  a  dark  and  ghastly  breach 
Between  her  upper  gums  and  each. 
He  Looks  and  says,   O,  well! 
Or  what  can  that  be,  on  such  hinges  hung? 

Thinks  piece  by  piece  she  comes  apart,  as  strung. 

Of  dentistry  he  ne'er  had  known , 

His  teeth  were  now  as  when  they're  grown, 

As  all  the  folks  at  home. 
Perhaps,  a  tooth-ache  now  and  then, 


CALIFOENIA  IN  EARLY  TIMES.  61 

Was  all  that  troubled  since  or  when, 

As  dentists  ere  had  come 
Within  so  many  miles  of  where  he  spent 
His  early  days,  or  in  that  town  or  tent. 

And  all  was  new  to  him  he  saw, 
Her  teeth  had  left  her  gum  or  jaw, 

Then  what  was  to  come  next  ? 
Again  she  says,  the  night  is  warm ! 
If  I  should  part  with  little  charm  ? 

He  then  became  perplexed. 
If  I  should  change  my  dress  you  will  not  mind  ? 
To  now  get  up  and  leave,  he's  is  inclined 

Consenting,  she  now  on  her  feet, 
With  figure  now  perfection  sweet, 

With  toilet  now  so  fair. 
Returning  changed,  so  much  in  grace, 
His  visage  now  with  a  long  face, 

Unconscious  says,    Who's  there  ? 
'Tis  me,  my  dear.     It  was  so  close  and  warm, 
I  knew  to  change  a  little  was  no  harm. 

She  stands  now  up  as  straight's  a  pole, 
Right  up  and  down,  which  o'er  him  stole 

Reflections  of  this  kind: 
What  must  the  women  here  be  made  ? 
What  changes  come,  and  how  they  fade; 

Now  what  is  left  behind  ? 
To  make  a  wife  of  when  of  Art  so  stripped, 
I'll  try  no  more,  and  from  the  house  he  slipped. 

Next  morning,  when  he  did  awake, 
Reflections  of  this  kind  did  make  : 

They  either  are  divorced 
Or  made  of  artificial  gear; 
I'll  try  no  more  away  out  here. 

And  then  away  he  coursed 
To  dwell  with  people  after  all  whose  made 
By  Nature's  hand,  through  rural  life  and  shade. 


62  LINES  TO  MISS  MAKY  M'QUEEN. 

Now  time  had  passed  away  again, 
The  deacon's  son,  he  had  been  slain 

By  Indian  tribes,  who  came 
In  raids  on  frontier  life  to  prey, 
His  rival  now  had  passed  away, 

And  now  he  was  at  home. 
Coquettish  ways  again  the  flame  inspired, 
He  married  Sue,  the  one  he  first  admired. 


LINES 

WRITTEN   TO   MISS  MARY  M'QUEEN. 
[On  year  of  dry  Summer  in  New  England,  1864.  Rain  commenced  while  writing.] 

HOW  Nature  sometimes  will  mistake, 
As  well  as  we  poor  mortals; 
That  time  that  Nature  needs  the  most, 
The  time  she  shuts  her  portals. 
But  still  it's  very  true, 
I  know,  and  so  do  you, 
In  early  Spring  the  rain  came  down, 
And  Nature's  efforts  seemed  to  crown. 

And  blossoms  from  the  fruit  trees  came, 

And  flowers  burst  forth  in  splendor, 
And  everything  gave  promise  that 
We'd  have  a  rich  November; 
But  Mary,  you  know  well, 
As  well  as  tongue  can  tell, 
Since  Nature  sorrowed  so  severe, 
That  she  refused  to  shed  one  tear. 

The  consequence  we  soon  beheld, 

For  all  things  seemed  dejected, 
And  like  a  maid  that's  growing  old, 

Or  some  one  that's  rejected, 


LINES  TO   MISS  MARY  MCQUEEN.  63 

And  hankering,  hankering,  fed 

The  worms  both  black  and  red, 
Till  all  of  Nature  lost  her  prime, 
And  devastation  reigned  sublime. 

In  fact  the  face  of  all  the  earth 

Was  losing  of  her  beard, 
But  though  she's  reckoned  very  old, 
In  Spring  its  still  restored, 
With  ocean  large  and  salt, 
With  that  I'll  not  find  fault, 
But  I  would  really  like  to  see 
Why  people  know  its  he  or  she. 

But  as  the  earth,  whatever  it  be, 
Was  blushing  red  with  shame 
That  all  her  veins  were  drying  up 
Throughout  her  withered  frame. 
Her  caverns  of  health, 
With  all  her  massive  wealth, 
Could  not  refreshing  dews  restore, 
From  sea  distilled  upon  the  shore. 

Nor  would  the  prayer  divinely  said 

By  ministers  devout, 
Though  from  the  rock  old  Moses*  rod 
Caused  streams  refreshing  spout, 
Nor  Lisa's  prayer  prevail, 
Nor  Albert  with  his  pail, 
Though  water  carried,  long  to  tell, 
In  buckets  from  the  deepest  well. 

But,  hark !  what  is  it  now  I  hear, 

Now  patting  the  dry  earth  ? 
Can  that  be  what  was  wished  for  long, 
To  all  things  so  much  worth  ? 
Yes,  croaking  toads,  give  up, 
Refreshing  globules  sup, 
And  call  all  nature  praise  to  rise, 
The  earth  is  nourished  from  the  skies. 


64  THE  CALIFORNIA  PIONEER. 


THE  CALIFORNIA  PIONEER. 

* 

A  pioneer  of  forty-nine, 
As  good  as  ere  came  here  to  mine, 
Or  pack  around  a  train 
O'er  mountain  side  with  pick  and  pan; 
Indeed  he  was  as  good  a  man 

As  ever  crossed  the  plain. 
He  came  as  others  came,  to  mine  for  gold; 
As  other  pioneers,  the  way  to  mold. 

His  luck  was  good,  he  staked  his  claim, 
For  nothing  could  his  purpose  maim. 

When  dust  enough  did  take 
To  make  a  visit  to  the  bay, 
Where  games  and  gamesters  all  did  play, 

Inviting  all  to  make 

Their  games,  and  now  their  stakes  put  down  and  try; 
With  clink  of  gold,  then  mostly  all  comply. 

They  only  had  the  gold  to  dig 

From  claims  now  staked  out,  small  and  big, 

And  scarcely  stopped  to  count 
The  value  of  their  bags,  well  filled, 
What  matter  then  if  little  spilled  ? 

To  what  does  it  amount  ? 

For  miners  then  knew  where  their  treasure  lay, 
As  they  came  back  and  forward  to  the  bay. 

The  sport  was  in  the  getting  same, 
To  sit  at  tables,  none  to  blame, 

And  pass  away  the  hours. 
Perhaps  the  night  might  pass  away, 
And  see  the  morning  light  so  gray 

From  Eastern  hills,  which  towers, 
Before  the  miner  would  give  up  for  rest, 
His  luck  and  fortune  still  did  want  to  test. 


THE   CALIFOKNIA  PIONEEK.  65 

What  wonder  then,  in  passing  time, 
There  might  be  what  is  termed  crime, 

When  years  alone  did  pass, 
No  female  voices  to  refine, 
No  nothing  was  there  in  that  line, 

But  sounds  of  drinking-glass 
To  greet  the  ear  in  all  those  days  so  spent; 
At  first  in  nothing  but  a  canvas  tent. 

This  is  the  way  this  pioneer, 
Through  early  times  and  life  did  peer 

In  all  the  ways  of  men. 
The  habits  which  so  long  had  wrought 
Through  all  those  times,  also  him  caught; 

Throughout  those  years  when 
He  spent  in  making  homes  for  human  race, 
Throughout  those  desert  hills  and  lonesome  place. 

And  cabins  which  he  helped  to  raise, 
For  female  voice  to  hear  in  praise, 

In  harmony  divine. 
The  trackless  hills  of  human  feet, 
No  kindred  voices  did  him  greet, 

In  days  of  forty-nine. 
In  all  those  days  this  pioneer  did  spend 
To  make  a  home  for  mankind  here  and  then. 

Now  twenty  years  had  passed  and  fled 
Since  for  the  sunset  traveled  Red 

For  California  life. 
And  now  he  has  his  children  five, 
His  partner,  too,  she  was  alive, 

His  own  dear  loving  wife, 
To  comfort  him  in  after  life  and  all, 
And  him  to  keep  from  paths  and  ways  man  fall. 

He  lived  as  did  all  pioneers, 
Until  now  getting  up  in  years, 
Had  money  made  enough. 
But  as  with  all  first  comers  here, 


66  THE   CALIFORNIA  PIONEER. 

His  time  was  shortened  in  this  sphere, 

By  life  so  hard  and  rough. 
Then  sickened  from  hard  usage,  now  so  tried, 
And  passed  away  that  pioneer,  and  died. 

Then  to  another  world  did  go, 
As  all  appear  both  high  and  low, 

Now  sooner  or  in  late; 
And  at  the  gate  of  paradise 
He  must  appear,  he  had  no  choice, 

To  see  what  was  his  fate. 
And  as  a  Californian,  lost  no  time, 
But  rapped  away  for  entrance  there  divine. 

Then  Peter  came,  and  at  the  gate, 

Says,  what's  the  hurry?     What's  the  State, 

Or  country,  was  your  home  ? 
It  must  a  country  be  that's  fast, 
Things  done  in  a  hurry  cannot  last; 

And  whence  now  have  you  come  ? 
Or  are  you  from  the  earth  ?     What  planet,  where  ? 
This  hurried  rapping  I  must  say  is  rare. 

He  answered  Peter  in  this  way  : 
How  long  would  you  have  me  to  stay 

An  answer  for  to  get  ? 
The  place  I  came  from  is  the  earth, 
Could  send  a  message  round  its  girth, 

And  offered  for  to  bet, 

That  he  could  send  a  message  round  that  globe, 
Since  he  was  waiting  there  without  his  robe. 

Then  Peter  said,  "They're  getting  smart, 
With  wondrous  ways  'and  cunning  art. 

When  I  was  on  the  earth 
It  was  not  known  that  it  was  round, 
But  one  continual  plain  or  mound, 

Or  that  it  had  a  girth; 
But  now  the  change  is  wonderful  of  late, 
Or  since  I've  watched  this  entrance  and  this  gate/' 


THE  CALIFORNIA  PIONEER.  67 

» 

He  asks  again,  "What  part  of  earth, 
Where  he  had  come  from,  with  such  worth, 

And  rapid  motion  filled, 
And  where  he  spent  his  early  days, 
And  what  he  did,  and  in  what  ways 

His  usefulness  distilled, 
That  he  should  act  so  hasty  in  this  sphere, 
And  come  so  boldly  to  these  gates  up  here?" 

<l  America  it  was  my  land, 
It  now  is  crossed  in  iron  band 

To  that  Pacific  shore; 
And  California  is  the  name 
Of  land  and  State  from  whence  I  came. 

I  ne'er  can  see  it  more; 
But  if  there's  resurrection  of  the  dead, 
My  body  still  is  there,  from  whence  I  fled." 

Then  Peter  said,  "I  thought  so,  sure; 
Whatever  hastens  or  allure, 

Those  Californians  all, 
They  come  up  here  with  such  intent, 
I  sometimes  think  they  often  meant 

To  force  or  scale  the  wall; 
That  they  could  not  with  patience  wait  or  bear 
To  ask  them  whence  they  came  from  or  from  where. 

"  I  cannot  let  you  pass  in  here; 
You  must  away  some  other  sphere, 

You  Californians  all; 
You  are  depraved  and  full  of  sin, 
And  nothing  can  e'er  come  within 

Who  down  so  low  does  fall, 
And  now  you  must  away,  and  not  come  back 
To  ask  admittance,  for  your  sins  are  black." 

He  stood  and  looked  with  full  intent 
To  see  and  find  what  Peter  meant 

By  telling  him  to  go; 
Says,  "You're  the  man  so  little  knew 


68  THE   CALIFORNIA  PIONEER. 

On  earth  before  the  cock  it  crew; 

When  you  were  down  below, 
Your  Master  did  deny,  and  cursed  and  swore 
You  never  knew  the  man  your  burden  bore. 

"  I  am  of  California's  line, 
A  pioneer  of  forty-nine. 

My  time  for  years  I  spent- 
Preparing  for  the  world  to  come 
To  settle  down  and  make  their  home, 

Was  still  my  full  intent; 
And  after  twenty  years  so  spent  in  toil, 
I  helped  to  build  a  city,  won't  recoil. 

I  houses  built,  and  church  and  spire, 
Which  Christian  people  still  admire; 

And  schools,  and  temples  tall, 
And  o'er  a  desert-like  frontier 
Are  settled  now,  from  far  and  near, 

Where  I  went  first  of  all; 
There  nothing  was  but  sand-hills  and  a  bay: 
All  this  was  done  in  twenty  years — what  say  ? 

And  in  the  distance  very  far 
It  was  alone  the  western  star; 

That  country  now  so  large 
In  population  from  all  climes, 
Where  I  did  travel  early  times, 

With  nothing  then  in  charge, 
And  everything  to  work  with,  bricks  and  tiles, 
By  shipping  distance  nineteen  thousand  miles. 

The  tools  and  all  came  round  Cape  Horn, 
To  build  that  city  from  that  morn; 

With  tools  and  all,  can  say, 
1  he  lumber  in  the  forest  hills, 
Machinery  and  all  the  mills, 

Came  round  in  that  same  way; 
Then  distance  from  the  forest  trees  immense 
Had  ships  to  build  to  ship  it  there  and  thence. 


THE   CALIFORNIA   PIONEER.  69 

Besides  the  place  the  city  rest 

Was  the  last  place  to  have  been  blest, 

But  long  forsaken  been 
By  that  Creator  of  us  all, 
Who  everything  both  great  and  small, 

And  all  creation  seen, 

For  mountains  of  the  sand  and  drifting  wind 
Was  not  inviting — nothing  of  that  kind. 

I  left  that  city  when  in  rest; 
My  body's  laid  near  ocean  west, 

Where  many  a  pioneer 
Is  laid,  to  sleep  his  last  long  sleep 
By  that  Lone  Mountain's  mound  or  heap, 

Now  watered  well  with  tear; 
That  city  of  the  dead  too  grows,  alas! 
And  many  a  pioneer  in  here  must  pass. 

You  were  engaged  in  catching  fish, 
And  nothing  ere  had  done  to  wish, 

Nor  ought  but  fish  in  hauled. 
And  now  you're  stationed  here  so  long, 
And  nothing  done  but  that  same  song. 

If  you  had  ne'er  been  called, 
You  never  would  been  stationed  at  that  gate 
To  tell  a  pioneer  of  such  a  fate. 

But  Peter  answered  that  same  look, 
And  from  his  feet  the  dust  he  shook, 

And  further  off  he  turned 
As  not  yet  ready  for  to  speak. 
In  silent  pause  and  looking  meek, 

As  though  the  whole  he  spurned. 
The  pioneer  then  asked  him  back  to  tell, 
What  he  had  done  on  earth  deserved  so  well  ? 

Then  Peter  said,  But  all  your  sins 
Are  unrepentant,  and  your  kins 

Down  where  you  came  from  there, 
Have  gone  astray,  and  all  at  will, 


70  THE   CALIFORNIA  PIONEER. 

Unchaste,  unsanctified  and  ill, 

In  sin's  continual  lair, 

And  nothing  enters  here  unclean  from  earth, 
Or  other  planets  from  their  home  or  birth. 

Temptations  great  beset  us  when 
We  left  our  homes  and  time  to  spend. 

The  early  ones  at  first, 
Were  all  subjected  more  to  sin. 
There  nothing  was  that  place  within, 

And  youth  for  folly  thirst, 
Were  thrown  among  the  fast  from  everywhere, 
Away  from  grace  and  gospel,  mother's  care. 

Men  did  contract  those  ways  they  hold, 
Which  still  they  have  when  they  grow  old, 

Nor  could  they  stand  the  test. 
Those  Californians  of  first  run, 
First  generation  to  the  sun 
When  setting  in  the  west; 
When  they  came  out  at  first  as  pioneers, 
And  left  their  homes  and  friends  in  sorrow's  tears. 

And  led  the  way  to  that  great  west, 
Made  wealth  and  homes  now  for  the  rest 

Of  all  mankind  to  be; 
And  in  the  space  of  twenty  years 
A  rising  country  young,  appears 

In  infancy  you  see; 

And  at  the  risk  of  life  and  grave  sincere, 
They  should  have  rest,  and  all  be  let  in  here. 

One  generation  to  prepare, 

It  took  from  all  and  everywhere 

That  country  at  that  time 
For  to  make  ready  for  the  rest, 
And  down  to  others  their  bequest, 

Their  country  and  their  clime. 
Should  all  those  people  then  be  thrown  away  ? 
Was  drawn  from  home,  there  premature  to  lay  ? 


. 

.  >  Of  IK 

:|TWj| 

THE  CALIFORNIA  PIONEER.  71 

,;    ' 

They  held  to  god-like  doctrine  all 
Through  life,  although  at  times,  did  fall, 

They  die  as  Christian  men. 
And  all  believers  promise  good, 
Which  can  be  said  as  Christian  food 

If  they  repent,  and  then 
Most  all  in  death  enjoy  the  boon,  though  late, 
So  now  the  key  put  in — unlock  that  gate. 

Then  Peter  turned  again  away 

And  counsel  took-     He  heard  him  say: 

These  Californians  all 
Come  here  so  persevering  now, 
There's  nothing  I  can  say,  I  vow, 

When  at  the  gate  they  call. 
And  though  their  sins  are  scarlet  red  in  stain, 
I  try  to  keep  them  out  well  nigh  in  vain. 

We  might  as  well  at  once  comply, 
And  looking  round  and  something  sly, 

Says,    Pioneer,  come  in. 
And  all  who  left  in  forty-nine, 
And  all  who  of  that  time  and  line, 

And  all  of  that  first  kin; 
First  generation  to  that  place  and  shore, 
This  gate  is  open! — shall  be  evermore. 


72  LINES  SENT  MY  WIFE. 

LINES 

SENT    WIFE   WHILE    AWAY. 

AND  now,  my  dear  Maggie,  as  often  I've  said, 
Since  down  in  that  valley,  the  place  we  were  wed 
Where  paths  then  were  winding  the  sand  hills  around, 
And  the  hills  and  the  valleys  as  nature  was  found. 

O,  you  well  remember,  remember  with  ease, 
The  front  of  that  cottage,  and  two  forest  trees 
Which  towered  so  lofty  the  cot  to  defend, 
With  porch  in  the  center  and  door  on  the  end. 

And  you  well  remember  the  garden  of  flowers, 
Which  opened  so  blooming  in  those  happy  hours, 
With  sweet  scenting  fragrance,  right  under  the  hill, 
Where  stood  that  dear  cottage  right  by  the  wind-mill. 

And  then,  rny  dear  Maggie,  the  yard  and  the  shed, 
The  horse  that  came  to  you  without  e'er  been  led; 
The  ducks  and  the  pond,  and  the  dog  that  did  watch 
At  the  gate  to  come  with  me  when  opened  the  latch. 

And,  O,  our  dog  Dickey,  for  that  was  his  name, 
I  ne'er  can  forget  him,  though  far  from  the  lane; 
How  he  would  come  mourning  in  sorrow  and  sighs, 
When  he  could  not  find  me,  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

In  sorrow  and  trouble  to  you  would  complain 
If  he  could  not  find  me,  and  how  would  remain 
In  the  garden,  still  mourning  in  sorrow  and  tears 
If  he  was  not  with  me,  in  those  happy  years. 

Would  look  in  your  face  and  with  pitiful  strain 
Beseech  you  to  let  him  come  with  me  again. 
And  how  he  would  watch  at  that  entrance  and  gate 
To  welcome  my  coming,  both  early  and  late. 


THE   FABLE.  73 

What  constant  affection  for  me  did  possess, 
And  for  to  come  with  me  how  urgent  did  press; 
I  ne'er  can  forget  such  a  faithful,  good  friend 
As  was  our  dog  Dickey,  until  my  life's  end. 


THE  FABLE 

BETWIXT    OCCIDENT    AND    GOLDSMITH    MAID    AND    LUCY.       THE 
RESULT   OF   THE    RACES. 

IT  was  on  the  Pacific  shore, 
Three  thousand  miles,  it  might  be  more, 

From  where  the  racers  stood, 
When  Occident  began  to  say, 
His  head  aloft,  and  then  did  neigh, 

And  to  himself  says,  good: 
"There's  nothing  on  this  coast  can  make 
The  time  I  made,  without  a  break, 

When  I  am  in  the  mood; 
For  I  went  round  that  course  in  time  and  speed 
Which  tells  to  all  my  pedigree  and  breed. 

If  I  would  challenge  Goldsmith  Maid, 
And  Lucy,  too,  I'm  not  afraid, 

Those  rnares  so  proud  of  flight, 
To  come  and  see  this  distant  sphere. 
I  wonder  if  they'd  laugh  and  sneer, 

If  they  would  think  it  right, 
To  challenge  them  to  cross  the  plains; 
I  wonder  if  they'd  take  the  pains, 

If  I  would  them  invite, 
If  they  would  make  a  trip  for  gold  and  gear, 
Make  some  excitement  in  the  world  out  here  ? 

I  have  been  groomed,  I  have  been  fed, 
I  have  been  drove,  I  have  been  led 
In  that  same  way  and  place, 


74  THF   FABLE. 

And  nothing  for  my  owner  made, 
My  laurels  too  begin  to  fade — 

It's  music  dull  to  face, 
And  be  the  same  from  day  to  day, 
Monotonous,  I  now  must  say, 

To  never  stretch  a  trace 
With  those  of  a  superior  race  and  blood, 
This  country  round  the  common  stock  does  flood 

I  feel  disgusted  here  to  be, 

And  nothing  noble  round  me  see. 

I'll  telegraph  to  know 
If  they  would  like  a  trip  so  far 
To  see  me  in  this  western  star 

With  stock  that  moves  so  slow, 
And  now  an  answer  for  to  get, 
I  soon  can  see  how  it  will  set, 

Should  it  blew  high  or  low; 
For  to  be  known  and  noticed  I  aspire, 
And  celebrated  be  I  do  admire. 

His  answer  was  soon  sent  and  told, 
They  wished  to  see  the  land  of  gold, 

The  sunset  and  the  west, 
And  try  what  speed  was  in  his  heels. 
In  admiration  now  he  wheels, 

To  have  a  chance  to  test 
The  celebrated  trotting  mares, 
And  whom  he  took  nigh  unawares. 

And  when  they  have  some  rest 
When  they  arrive  in  California's  clime, 
They'd  trot  with  him,  or  try  it  round  on  time. 

The  owner  of  young  " Occident" 
Began  to  look  with  some  intent 

On  how  this  thing  might  pay. 
And  as  he  was  a  railroad  man, 
He  thought  it  might  be  a  good  plan 

To  tell  without  delay, 
To  have  a  car  arranged  to  take 


THE  FABLE.  75 

For  their  accommodation  make. 

To  agents  then  did  say: 

To  send  them  through  without  expense  or  fares, 
Those  racers  two,  with  drivers  and  their  mares. 

The  two  fast  mares  began  to  make 
Remarks  upon  the  time  and  stake, 

While  passing  o'er  the  rail. 
While  " Goldsmith  Maid"  began  to  cough, 
And  "  Lucy  "  broke  in  a  horse-laugh, 

And  stamped  and  shook  her  tail, 
And  female-like,  they  did  begin, 
Of  "Occident,"  and  of  his  kin, 

His  message  sent  by  mail; 
Or  how  he  came  to  look  so  far  and  high, 
Of  which  he  may  repent,  look  back  and  sigh. 

The  "  Maid  "  replied:    It's  far,  indeed, 

To  come  and  try  a  little  speed 

.     Of  trotting  round  a  park ; 

And  then,  with  one  so  little  known, 

But  lately  into  favor  grown; 

Of  late  but  made  his  mark. 
In  time,  but  that  is  when  alone, 
And  track  rolled  out  as  smooth's  a  stone, 

He  feels  then  gay's  a  lark. 
But  when  he  comes  along  side  of  me  to  score, 
I'll  harass  him  so  much,  he'll  want  no  more. 

Then  "  Lucy  "  said:     As  he  is  young, 
He  may  be  fast,  and  be  high  strung; 

That  is  the  way  to  take. 
To  harass  him  coquettish-like, 
Forget  himself,  so  he  may  strike, 

And  so  be  wide  awake. 
And  now  as  you  can  score  the  best, 
Don't  start  with  him,  until  you're  pressed, 

Then  he  is  sure  to  break. 
As  I  am  oldest,  I  can  tell  you  truth, 
Thus  take  advantage  of  his  ways  and  youth. 


76  THE  FABLE. 

The  "Maid"  replies:     You've  always  been 
A  mother  to  me  when  more  green; 

I'll  always  take  advice. 
When  younger  I  did  still  adhere 
To  what  you  said,  and  always  mere, 

Because  you  spoke  so  nice. 
I'll  do  my  best,  this  caution  mind, 
And  when  we  start  he  will  be  blind, 

I'll  beat  him  two  in  thrice. 
By  scoring  I  can  work  him  up,  and  so 
He'l  scarcely  hear  the  word  to  start  or  go. 

Then  "  Lucy  "  said :     When  I  go  round 
The  course  with  him  he  must  be  sound, 

For  I  am  firm  and  strong. 
I'll  let  him  dart  ahead;  he  must; 
And  to  my  strength  I  then  can  trust 

In  coming  home  among 
The  crowds  of  people  who  will  go 
To  see  the  race,  from  high  to  low. 

In  that  promiscuous  throng 
I'll  put  myself  to  work  with  my  whole  strength, 
And  then  I'll  pass  him  home  at  least  one  length. 

'Twas  all  arranged  how  they  would  take, 
And  thus  how  they  could  win  the  stake 

And  carry  off  the  prize. 
Then  won't  they  feel  so  cheap  and  blue 
To  have  him  beat  by  both  us  two  ? 

If  we  so  work  it  wise 
And  cunning,  for  there's  more  in  that. 
And  now  I  say  and  tell  you  what, — 

And  here  they  both  did  rise 
Unto  their  feet,  for  they  were  both  in  bed, — 
And  looking  round  say,    Time  that  we  were  fed. 

Thus  day  by  day  the  mares  did  make 
Their  minds  up  how  they'd  win  the  stake, 
When  at  their  journey's  end; 


THE   FABLE.  77 

And  their  engagements  well  did  keep, 
Although  fatigue  and  loss  of  sleep 

Did  no  assistance  send. 
"Now  for  a  few  days'  resting  spell, 
So  we  may  feel  ourselves  as  well, 

Before  we  do  attend, 

To  run  the  first  race  o'er  the  track  with  him," 
Whom  they  found  dark  and  looking  very  trim. 

Then  for  the  race  the  day  was  set, 
For  Goldsmith  Maid  to  win  the  bet; 

She  watched  him  very  clear. 
Near  dozen  times  now  with  him  scored; 
She  kept  her  strength  together  stored, 

When  he  came  close  or  near. 
At  last  got  off,  he  shot  ahead, 
She  overtook  and  now  him  led, 

He  sweating  now  with  fear. 
She  passed  and  came  toward  the  winning  post, 
While  pools  and  bets  stood  two  to  one  at  most. 

The  second  heat:  now  for  a  start; 
The  Maid  again,  coquettish  art, 

In  coming  to  the  score, 
Came  dashing,  and  then  checked  her  speed, 
To  fool  that  nimble-footed  steed, 

The  same  as  done  before, 
Until  the  horse  began  to  fret, 
And  says,  "  We  never  off  will  get, 

My  patience  out  is  wore 

With  ways  of  that  coquettish  Goldsmith  Maid; 
I  only  wish  she  was  more  staunch  and  staid." 

They  get  away  as  with  a  rush, 
And  for  the  heat  the  horse  did  push 

For  the  half  mile,  and  lo! 
The  horse  ahead  in  rapid  stride; 
The  Maid  comes  up  in  maiden  pride, 

And  closes  on  him  so. 


78  THE  FABLE. 

Now  she  steps  out  towards  the  pole, 
So  all  can  see  her  as  a  whole 
How  fast  she  now  can  go. 
This  heat  she  also  wins  and  him  she  led, 
While  Occidental  faces  now  were  red. 

The  third  heat  now  was  called  again; 
He  wants  to  go  with  might  and  main. 

The  race  it  was  so  set, 
Best  three  in  five,  it  was  the  rule; 
He  calls  himself  an  ass  or  mule, 

If  this  heat  he  don't  get. 
So  she  won't  boast  of  every  heat 
O'er  this  great  land  of  gold  and  wheat, 

He  now  begins  to  fret. 
They  start  again:  this  time  will  tell  the  whole; 

The  same  as  other  two — she  past  him  stole. 

• 

The  last  heat  round  the  course  was  run, 
Within  one  hour  of  setting  sun, 

On  Sacramento  track. 
Then  many  left  and  went  their  way, 
For  Occident  had  lost  the  day, 

Too  late  to  bring  it  back. 
There  is  one  other  racer  near, 
They  both  came  on  to  run  out  here; 

To  try  again  won't  lack. 
"I'll  surely  pass  that  awful  clumsy  mare, 
Who  looks  so  old  and  built  so  strong  and  square/* 

vThe  match  again  was  made  to  be 
Now  at  a  place  where  near  the  sea, 

Across  the  spreading  Bay 
Of  San  Francisco  to  the  east, 
Alameda  Park,  to  say  the  least, 

It's  on  the  railroad  way, 
Not  far  from  where  the  ferry  end, 
So  all  can  now  the  race  attend,, 

And  meet  with  no  delay. 
The  day  was  coming  now  when  they  must  try 
For  Occident  reverse  the  hue  and  cry. 


THE    FABLE.  79 

The  tickets  and  the  pools  were  sold, 
The  morning  came  with  storm  and  cold, 

Some  rain  had  blown  and  fell 
Upon  the  course,  which  made  all  say 
The  race  will  not  come  off  to-day, 

Which  any  one  can  tell. 
Some  went  across  in  storm  and  rain, 
But  soon  found  out  it  was  in  vain; 

The  race  put  off  as  well 
Until  some  other  day  when  weather  clear, 
Not  far  away,  but  some  time  very  near. 

The  weather  fine,  the  day  was  fixed 
For  all  to  go  here  so  much  mixed, 

The  race  to  see  did  vow. 
And  then  away  in  boat  loads  went, 
To  see  the  race  .now  all  was  bent, 

And  time  all  did  allow 
Themselves  to  cross  the  bay  and  see 
That  race  so — so  long  that  was  to  be, 

This  day  and  place  and  now. 
In  thousands  crowded  on  the  boats  and  cars; 
The  rich  and  poor,  and  some  were  jolly  tars. 

The  track  now  enters  "  Occident." 
On  seeing  him,  she  to  him  sent 

A  look  of  half  disdain; 
Says,  That's  the  celebrated  horse? 
Before  he's  three  times  round  this  course, 

Or  ere  we  do  refrain,  « 

My  strength  and  speed  he's  sure  to  feel. 
To  score  and  start  they  now  did  wheel, 

Get  off  now  like  a  train. 

In  railroad  speed  they  went  the  first  half  mile, 
And  he  ahead  now  shot,  thus  far  in  style. 

She  stretching  out  to  end  the  joke, 
And  coming  up  on  him  he  broke. 
Before  he  had  regained 


80  THE  FABLE. 

His  speed  in  trotting,  she  was  gone 
Ahead  of  him.     Now  left  alone, 

Then  to  come  up  he  feigned, 
But  was  too  late  to  overtake, 
Or  for  to  cure  that  ugly  break 

And  loss  he  had  sustained. 
She,  coming. in  some  lengths  ahead  at  ease, 
Enjoying  now  whatever  gait  she  pleased. 

The  second  heat  again  called  up, 
But  "  Occident"  did  sorrow  sup. 

When  off  they  went  on  run; 
As  usual,  c<  Occident"  ahead. 
She  coming  up,  raised  the  old  Ned, 

As  though  she  liked  the  fun; 
For  coming  near  him,  to  enhance, 
The  music  played,  which  made  him  dance, 

His  folly  then  did  shun; 
And  coming  in  full  speed,  left  him  behind, 
To  dance  away,  as  long's  as  he  had  mind. 

And  bye  and  bye,  came  home  alone, 
So  distanced  now,  the  race  was  done. 

And  homeward  now  all  must; 
When  one  and  all  say,    What  a  farce  ! 
To  get  away  now,  from  the  course, 

All  turned  in  disgust, 
And  feeling  tame,  with  a  long  face, 
Say,  What  a  humbug  !    What  a  race ! 

And  looking  in  distrust, 

All  felt  as  though  they  had  been  sold;  and  now,. 
It  was  the  last  race  they  would  see,  did  vow. 

Now  for  the  city  took  the  lead, 
The  leading  men,  in  railroad  speed, 

In  haste  to  get  away. 
And  out  of  sight  they  all  partook, 
And  with  a  glance,  and  with  a  look, 

Never  passed  the  time  of  day 


THE  FABLE.  81 

To  one  another,  as  on  'change; 
Nor  did  one  syllable  exchange, 

But  home  without  delay, 
For  to  themselves  to  ponder  and  to  think: 
To  my  expense,  add  one  other  link. 

To  tell  the  number  now  was  sold, 
Of  youth  and  beauty,  and  the  old, 

And  millionaires,  that  day, 
Which  "  Occident  "  together  drew, 
And  fooled,  and  left  them  in  a  stew, 

Is  rather  hard  to  say. 
Ten  thousand  !     Might  be  more,  or  less, 
A  Yankee  would  be  sure  to  guess; 

All  looking  in  array 
To  see  the  horse  or  Occidental  dance, 
In  something  new,  which  never  came  from  France. 

A  child  on  mother's  lap  did  sit, 
This  question  asked  in  infant  wit: 

While  man  and  horse  did  fill, 
And  as  away  their  horses  turned, 
As  though  such  folly  now  they  spurned; 

And  says  in  child-like  will, 
What  horses,  mother,  runs  the  race  ? 
Or  where's  the  horses  and  the  place  ? 

Is  that  them  on  the  hill, 
Which  runs  so  fast  together  in  a  band 
Upon  yon  mountain  tops  and  o'er  the  land  ? 

The  mares,  now  stabled  side  by  side, 
Began  again  to  laugh  out  wide 

About  the  horse's  run, 
And  was  some  time  before  they  should 
Get  out  one  word  or  e'er  they  could 

Get  through  their  laugh  and  fun. 
They  laughed  themselves  hysteric  near, 
Till  from  their  eyes  did  start  a  tear, 

And  when  they  had  begun, 


82  THE  FABLE. 

Or  circumspect  become,  or  word  did  make, 
Their  very  heads  and  hearts  and  sides  did  ache. 

Then  when  they  had  got  through  or  calmr 
Their  fun  to  them  was  quite  a  balm, 

For  all  their  travels  west; 
And  now  to  sober  solid  thdught 
Of  him  whom  they  had  brought  to  naught, 

And  at  his  own  request, 
To  come  out  here,  made  so  polite 
For  both  of  us  he  did  invite; 

We  came  at  his  behest; 
And  now  excuse  of  fright  for  folly  feigns, 
His  trainer  blames,  or  man  who  held  the  reins. 

Then  Lucy  said,   ''I  am  a  judge 
Of  horse  flesh,  and  I  don't  begrudge 

His  owner  of  his  stock, 
For  no  one  knows  his  pedigree; 
There's  one  thing  we  all  can  see,. 

In  which  there  is  no  mock,, 
His  head  and  neck  a  mixture  is 
Of  mustang  race  ; "  then  with  a  quiz, 

At  that  the  Maid  did  shock. 
There  is  a  spark  of  that  cross  race  out  here, 
You  cannot  well  depend  to  for  the'll  shear. 

The  Maid  looked  up — says,  "That  is  so; 
For  in  his  neck  is  little  bow, 

But  as  a  donkey's  stand 
Out  from  his  shoulders  donkey-like; 
The  first  thing  to  which  me  did  strike 

When  I  came  to  this  land, 
For  when  I  met  him  the  first  time, 
I  noticed  that,  though  in  his  prime, 

His  neck  it  was  so  planned. 
I  don't  believe  his  pedigree  is  pure, 
Or  that  he  from  a  noble  race  inure. 


JAMES   KING   OF  WILLIAM.  83 

"He  may  run  off  a  little  while, 
Perhaps  it  may  be  half  a  mile, 

And  then  may  either  break 
Or  make  some  other  blunder  so; 
Which  no  one  e'er  can  in  him  know, 

Into  his  head  will  take, 
And  just  enough  to  not  be  sure 
Of  him,  and  something  none  can  cure 

Or  ever  better  make. 

Just  see  how  he  went  with  us,  broke  and  danced, 
And  fairly  up  and  down  he  jumped  and  pranced." 

He  fooled  the  Californians  all, 
But  money  made  the  railroads  all; 

His  owner  he  paid  well, 
And  as  he  is  a  railroad  man, 
To  lose  the  race  he  well  can  stand, 

Which  every  one  can  tell. 
But  when  he  makes  another  race 
For  to  come  off  in  that  same  place, 

To  charm  the  rich  in  spell, 
And  California's  name  and  fame  sustain, 
Some  other  kind  of  horses  he  will  train. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  ON  JAMES  KING  OF  WILLIAM,  AT  THE  TIME  AND 
SPIRIT  OF  THE  STARTING  OF  THE  "  SAN  FRANCISCO 
BULLETIN." 

HAIL  to  our  chieftain  brave ! 
Ne'er  yet  a  cringing  slave ! 
Him  let  us  sing. 
Now  let  the  wreath  be  bound 
With  garland  roses  round, 
And  let  our  chief  be  crowned, 
Always  our  King! 


84  GRANDMOTHER  M'QUEEN. 

When  here  the  right  was  chained, 
And  dark  corruption  reigned 

Spread  on  the  wing, 
Who  did  the  fetters  break  ? 
Through  ravines,  hills  and  lake,. 
Calling  to  duty,  wake, 

Who  but  our  King  ? 

Welcome  then,  comes  the  sheet, 
Which  reformation  seek, 

Fearless  to  bring 
On  moral  suasion's  rod, 
On  those,  who  down  have  trod, 
On  the  best  works  of  god, 

Honesty, — King ! 

Truth  still  upon,  your  side, 
And  let  what  will  betide, 

Far  may  it  ring 
Till  all  this  favored  land 
Joins  with  you,  heart  and  hand. 
All  in  a  happy  band. 

God  save  our  King! 


LINES  ON  GRANDMOTHER  McQUEEN. 

SHE'S  eighty-five  now,  every  year, 
With  those  black  eyes  still  looking  clear. 
How  seldom  do  we  find 
In  people  of  her  age  the  will 
To  do,  and  duty  to  fulfill 
In  memory  and  mind. 

So  perfect;  and  she  still  aspires 
To  duty,  which  she  still  admires. 
As  years  through  life  was  spent 


GRANDMOTHER  M'QUEEN.  85 

In  place  where  women  most  belong, 
As  mother,  and  amid  the  throng 
And  place  for  women  meant. 

With  ardent  wish  and  zealous  will, 
Her  home  and  place  so  long  did  fill, 

And  never  discontent. 
But  still  the  same  her  friends  among, 
Ne'er  out  of  place  those  years  so  long, 

Through  life  of  duty  bent. 

The  table  with  its  daily  bread, 

How  often  by  those  hands  been  spread 

In  days  now  past  and  gone  ? 
Which  vanished  with  the  flight  of  time, 
Those  days  when  in  her  youth  and  prime, 

Has  vanished  one  by  one. 

The  form  once  cast  by  Nature's  mold, 
No  imperfection  on  it  told, 

Though  time  may  shrink  away. 
But  spirit  never  can  be  less, 
Has  seen  those  days  which  few  possess, 

The  time  is  short  we  stay. 

For  Time  is  ever  on  the  wing, 

And  with  him  all  that  change  must  bring 

Which  passes  o'er  our  fate. 
There  nothing  is  but  Time  compels 
To  succumb  to  long  years  and  spells 

In  sooner  or  in  late. 


01  teal 

[UHI7BRSITT) 


86  THE  CONCEPTION   OF   WRONG. 


THE  CONCEPTION  OF  WRONG. 

HOW  often  do  the  blemish 
Those  ways  conceived  as  harm, 
In  giving  that  conception 

Which  always  does  unarm, 
Impotent  ways  engenders, 

And  health  and  life  annoys, 
Through  life,  in  dire  disturbance, 
And  usefulness  destroys. 

By  that  conceived  by  mortals, 

Or  fellow-creatures  here, 
To  be  of  such  transgression 

On  this  terrestial  sphere, 
As  never  can  be  pardoned, 

Or  mercy  ever  find, 
Which  poisons  all  life's  fountains, 

And  always  in  the  mind. 

O,  happy  for  creation, 

For  man  through  life,  and  all, 
Was  never  conceived  as  evil, 

That  mentioned  by  the  fall; 
Which  filled  life's  cup  o'erflowing 

With  wormwood  and  with  gall,. 
By  being  conceived  as  evil, 

That  mentioned  by  that  fall. 


SAN  FKANCISCO   SUMMER  WINDS.  87 


SAN  FRANCISCO  SUMMER  WINDS. 

THROUGH  city  and  State, 
Through  that  deep  Golden  Gate 
Where  the  ocean  in  force,  ebb  and  flows 
To  her  wide  spreading  bay, 
Where  the  steamers  do  play, 
How  the  western  breezes,  still  blow. 

Through  streets,  and  her  lanes, 

And  her  arteries'  mains, 
Making  pure  all  the  places  so  low 

With  her  pure  cooling  breath; 

Where  the  emblems  of  death 
Move  in  mystery  round,  to  and  fro. 

O'er  mountains  in  shrouds, 

Where  the  fog  rolls  in  clouds 
O'er  the  hills  and  the  valleys  so  low, 

With  your  pure  cooling  blast, 

From  that  ocean  so  vast, 
Where  in  majesty  still  ebbs  and  flow. 

What  would  all  be  for  thee, 

Thou  great  glorious  sea, 
With  thy  cool  blowing  winds  o'er  us  cast, 

O'er  our  city  so  grand 

As  she  now  takes  a  stand, 
But  thy  pure  and  thy  sea-cooling  blast. 


88  HOME  AGAIN. 


NEW  VERSION  OF   HOME  AGAIN. 

WRITTEN  TO  MRS.  HENSHELWOOD,  WHILE  MAKING  A  RURAL 
SUMMER  VISIT  IN  SANTA  CLARA  VALLEY  IN  TIME  OF  THE 
SAN  FRANCISCO  SUMMER  WINDS. 

COME  home  again,  home  again, 
Near  that  great  ocean's  shore. 
O,  how  it  fills  the  soul  with  joy, 
To  meet  our  friends  once  more. 
Home  again. 

Home  again,  home  again, 

Where  winds  and  fogs  roll  o'er, 
And  sand-hills  drift  with  clouds  of  dust, 

Come  home,  come  home,  once  more 
Home  again. 

Happy  thoughts,  happy  thoughts, 

To  think  of  that  sweet  home, 
Where  clouds  of  fog  and  sand  roll  o'er, 

To  greet  you  when  you  come 
Home  again. 

Home  again,  home  again, 

From  Santa  Clara's  vale, 
Where  garden  flowers  are  in  full  bloom 

To  sand-hills,  bare  and  stale, 
Home  again. 

Come  home  again,  home  again, 

Where  domes  and  spires  and  towers 

Here  still  ascend  among  the  clouds, 
And  husbands  keep  good  hours. 
Home  again. 


SUNDAY  IN  SAN  FKANCISGO.  89 


ON  PASSING  SUNDAY,  JUNE   220,   1873,   IN  SAN 
FRANCISCO. 

ON  Sunday  morning,  while  we  sat, 
The  teapot  on  the  tray  or  mat, 
While  Maggie  held  the  handle  tight, 
And  tried  to  pour  with  all  her  might 

From  teapot  large  and  brown, 
And  coffee,  for  we  had  our  choice, 
To  ask  it  with  becoming  voice, 

And  thinking  of  this  town, 
And  of  its  hills  and  valleys  and  the  rest, 
And  Golden  Gate,  that  key  to  all  the  west. 

One  of  our  circle  did  propose 
To  see  the  western  hills  and  those 
Of  northern  decline  to  view, 
And  as  perchance  see  something  new; 

Our  number  was  just  four. 
We  sallied  out,  the  morning  clear, 
And  feeling  good  from  breakfast  cheer, 

And  passing  round  the  gour, 
And  for  the  car  passed  up  the  sloping  hill; 
The  sky  was  clear,  the  morning  air  not  chill. 

Our  names  you  well  can  guess  and  tell, 

Indeed  they  are  not  hard  to  spell; 

Three  letters  for  each  name  will  sound 

What  we  will  answer  to  all  round. 
And  here  I  will  make  known 

And  tell  what  letters  make  the  space, 

So  you  can  know  our  names  and  place; 

We  long  have  been  men  grown. 
The  first  one's  name  is  Uncle  Tom  for  him, 
The  next  one's  Uncle  Joe,  then  Bob,  then  Jim. 

We  reached  the  car  and  all  got  in, 
And  hoped  it  might  not  be  a  sin, 


90  SUNDAY  IN   SAN  FRANCISCO. 

When  wives  away,  to  look  at  those 

Who  sat  there  blooming  as  a  rose, 

1     And  never  thinking  ill 

Of  those  who  might  look  round  perchance, 

And  at  the  same  time  take  a  glance, 

In  winding  round  the  hill. 

Where  sometimes  speed  was  doubled  round  the  curve, 
And  as  to  try  the  strength  of  horse  and  nerve. 

The  harbor  reached,  and  now  to  see, 

And  ocean  beach  along  to  be. 

The  sight  was  beautiful  to  look, 

A  dozen  sail,  which  all  partook, 
Through  wind  and  wave  to  steer 

For  distant  ports  with  ebbing  tide, 

Soon  vanished  for  the  ocean  wide; 

Though  looking  first  so  near, 
Yet  soon  they  passed  away  and  out  of  sight 
For  that  great  ocean  wave  in  all  its  might. 

The  narrow  entrance  at  the  fort 

Prevents  the  sea  from  making  sport 

With  her  long  ocean  wave  at  times, 

Which  runs  so  long  in  dashing  lines 
For  shore  or  beach  amain ; 

But  soon  finds  out  those  solid  rocks 

Her  line  of  battle  only  mocks, 

Though  she  should  come  again; 
Those  craggy  pillars  long  the  war  did  wage, 
And  in  convulsion  throw  her  billows'  rage. 

The  heavy  rolling  of  the  wave, 

Like  that  deep  sound  some  organs  gave, 

In  tones  so  low  in  awe  did  keep 

Us  listening  to  their  moans  so  deep, 
And  to  the  spell  was  bound, 

While  listening  to  their  hollow  strains, 

Which  tells  a  great  Creator  reigns, 

Was  whispered  in  the  sound 
Which  round  this  world's  circuit  never  dies, 
Still  mingles  with  the  winds  in  solemn  sighs. 


*  SUNDAY  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO.  91 

But  time  was  passing  on  so  fast, 

A  look  towards  our  home  we  cast; 

For  when  we  left  we  promised  to 

Back  to  dinner  just  at  two. 
Then  for  the  horse  and  rail; 

Now  in  the  car,  the  horses  start, 

But  one  of  them  he  had  the  art 

Of  thrashing  like  a  flail 
Upon  the  dasher  with  his  feet  behind, 
Which,  lucky  for  the  driver,  was  well  lined. 

But  off  he  goes,  and  as  for  fun, 

And  up  the  hill  as  by  the  run; 

Then  stops  again  and  backs  us  down; 

Then  looking  back,  half  turning  round, 
Thinks,  "  Now  I  am  all  right; 

To  face  that  hill  I  cannot  think, 

Attached  to  traces  and  this  link;" 

And  tried  with  all  his  might 
To  keep  his  head  still  turned  towards  the  beach, 
And  still  refused  the  traces  for  to  stretch. 

Still  patiently  the  driver  hooked, 
He  turned  his  head  and  then  he  looked, 
And  thought  it  don't  look  now  so  steep, 
And  then  he  bounded  with  a  leap; 

How  soon  he  topped  the  hill, 
And  with  him  took  more  than  his  share. 
And  on  the  hill  did  pant  and  stare, 
Thinks  now  I  am  at  will 

To  stop  or  go  again,  I'll  make  my  mind; 

The  driver  still  to  him  was  very  kind. 

Till  horse  and  driver  did  agree, 
An  emblem  on  a  bunch  of  three, 
'Twas  not  the  shamrock  nor  the  rose,. 
But  thistle,  as  you  might  suppose, 

Discovered  all  alone, 
Was  taken  trimmed  for  Maggie  Ross, 


92  SUNDAY  IN   SAN  FRANCISCO.    ' 

By  James,  so  she  would  not  feel  cross 

In  being  late  from  home, 
Or  dinner  waiting  by  a  baulky  horse, 
Again  to  meet  more  temper  still  was  worse. 

But  dinner  in  good  time  was  struck, 

Which  told  us  that  we  were  in  luck. 

We  sat,  for  now  our  appetite 

Was  whispering  not  to  be  polite, 
But  eat  in  haste  and  will. 

And  when  we  justice  done  the  plates, 

It  was  agreed  that  we,  as  mates, 
Would  hear  the  pilgrim  still; 
1  hat  Singing  Pilgrim  with  melodious  voice, 
And  now  the  Tabernacle  made  our  choice. 

The  time  on  Sunday  evening,  same 
As  other  churches,  now  had  came. 
It  now  was  lit  and  looking  fine, 
Those  seats,  which  circle  in  a  line, 

Their  way  the  people  willed 
From  everywhere,  in  every  door, 
Came  down  the  aisles  and  steps  and  floor, 

Until  the  house  was  filled. 
The  pastor  coming  to  his  seat,  and  when, 
Gave  out  the  page  to  sing  from,  thence  and  then. 

All  nearly  joined  in  songs  of  praise, 
Regardless  of  their  worldly  ways; 
But,  O !  the  discord  was  so  grand, 
The  ocean's  voice,  o'er  rocks  and  sand, 

Was  music  to  the  ear, 
Compared  to  some  with  voices  gone, 
By  age  and  care,  perhaps  alone 

With  worldly  cares  and  fear, 
Their  voices  grating,  some  on  different  notes, 
In  a  harsh  sound,  while  through  the  air  it  floats. 

The  minister  said,  Let  us  pray. 
They  all  agreed,  for  none  said  nay ; 


SUNDAY   IN   SAN   FRANCISCO.  93 

They  bowed  consent  to  have  it  so. 
He  was  the  only  one  did  know 

The  prayer  he  now  would  say. 
But  earnestly  he  did  appeal, 
His  supplication  they  might  feel, 

On  this  same  night  and  day; 
That  sinners  would  confess  their  sins,  and  come, 
And  that  converted  be  this  night  might  some. 

They  sung  once  more,  and  then  to  preach — 

To  tell  them  how  that  heaven  to  reach, 

And  never  wait  convenient  space, 

Convenient  season,  time,  or  place, 
The  blessing  for  to  find. 

And  never  more  the  Spirit  scoff; 

No.  longer  for  to  put  it  off, 

The  Scripture's  teachings  mind. 
In  very  fervent  words  and  earnest  care, 
To  do  what  God  requires  while  He  forbear. 

The  singing  pilgrim  then  in  strains 

Of  silver  chord,  while  silence  reigns 

Throughout  the  circle,  large  and  calm, 

To  all  it  acted  as  a  balm; 
And  when  his  tones  out  died, 

Suspended  animation  reigned, 

Until  to  break  the  silence  feigned, 

Inviting  all  he  tried 

To  join  with  him  in  hearty,  fervent  song, 
That  congregation  circling  round  in  throng. 

To  join  they  did,  with  all  their  might; 
But  that  same  jar  and  discord's  flight 
From  many  voices  different  pitch 
On  different  notes — ne'er  thought  of  which 

Would  harmonize  so  well. 
The  tune  on  minor  key  was  set, 
Which  made  it  harder  for  to  get 

In  harmony  of  swell, 


94  DEATH   OF  A  FRIEND. 

Besides,  the  hymn  was  very  dry  and  long, 
The  music  died  towards  the  end  of  song. 

"Praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings  flow," 

Was  sung  by  all,  both  high  and  low, 

For  ages  past  and  gone  so  far, 

In  harmony,  without  a  jar 
Was  sung  with  voices  here. 

And  those  from  churches  often  stay, 

And  very  seldom  ever  pray 

From  every  land  and  sphere, 
When  that  familiar  music  broke  sublime, 
Was  made  to  join  in  praises  still  divine. 


LINES 

WRITTEN     ON     HEARING     OF    THE     DEATH    OF     AN     ESTIMABLE 
FRIEND,  CHARACTERISTIC  OF  A  VALUABLE  AND  GOOD  MAN. 

OHOW  can  I  realize  what  has  been  read, 
Or  how  can  we  think  that  the  good  man  is  dead? 
Is  there  no  mistake  in  this  saddest  of  news  ? 
Is  anxious  inquired  as  the  word  here  diffuse. 
The  distance  is  far  and  the  name  may  be  rared 
Of  some  one  which  died  who  might  be  better  spared. 
But  no;  here's  a  letter,  the  words  emphasized. 
O,  must  it  be  certain  or  now  realized 
That  one  so  beloved  and  respected  has  gone  ? 
If  so,  then  Great  Parent,  Thy  will  must  be  done, 
For  all  here  must  succumb  to  death's  stern  decree; 
It  is  so  with  you  and  it  is  so  with  me. 

The  life  he  has  yielded  is  to  Nature's  law, 
For  laws  true  to  Nature  a  child  in  him  saw; 
How  natural,  then,  for  a  child  thus  to  yield 


DEATH   OF   A   FRIEND.  95 

To  parent  who  loved  him  and  chose  him  to  shield 

From  paths  with  unrighteousness  fearful  and  rife. 

Through  his  short  space  of  time,  but  useful  spent  life, 

As  father  and  parent  to  one  and  to  all, 

Who  looked  for  protection  or  on  him  would  call; 

Advice  for  protection,  his  heart  and  his  hand 

Alike  was  to  all  and  the  poor  of  the  land, 

And  no  compensation,  alas,  could  expect — 

The  act  in  itself  compensation  direct. 

And  happy  he  must  been,  still  cheerful  him  find, 

Reversed  to  all  cruelty,  whatever  kind; 

Forbearance  with  creatures  how  often  would  crave, 

An  old  pioneer  as  a  friend  of  the  slave; 

Indeed,  in  advance  of  his  day  and  his  time, 

But  mantle  successful  is  dropped  now  sublime 

On  a  country  beloved,  now  arising  in  peace, 

From  the  dark  stain  of  which  he  so  longed  to  efface. 

How  many  looked  up  to  the  best  of  all  men, 
And  many  endearments  about  him  could  pen, 
As  always  beseeching  so  earnest  and  plain, 
From  all  that  intoxicates  surely  abstain. 
There's  many  now  blest  by  this  fatherly  guide, 
And  many  look  back  on  his  time  now  with  pride, 
When  followed  him  on  to  it  seemed  then  afar 
To  the  land  of  the  free  as  the  pioneer  star. 
Now  follow  in  death  we  are  sure  and  we  must; 
Tis  so  with  the  wicked,  'tis  so  with  the  just. 
'Tis  said  in  the  Scriptures,  authority  best, 
The  merciful  here  is  with  mercy  still  blest. 
If  so,  then  the  one  who  has  gone  from  all  sight; 
With  that,  as  in  all  things,  was  found  in  the  right, 
For  years  now  gone  past  and  the  time  now  unrolled 
Reveals  but  a  part  and  the  half  can't  be  told 
His  goodness  on  earth,  but  now  gone  to  his  rest, 
Great  Spirit,  now  hovering  along  with  the  blest. 

But  though  he  has  gone,  it  is  mete  to  proceed 
A  little  advance  and  the  way  for  to  lead 


96  DEATH   OF   A  FRIEND. 

Through  death's  dreadful  portals  and  way  to  the  tomb. 
And  soften  the  way  so  much  shaded  in  gloom. 
From  which  no  one  ever  came  back  for  to  tell 
Of  myriads  who's  gone  to  say  what  them  befell; 
Or  if  they  were  better  than  here  upon  earth, 
From  when  they  departed  till  day  of  their  birth. 
But  God,  the  great  Source  of  all  infinite  things, 
Sees  good  will  and  pleasure  in  all  which  he  brings 
To  pass  upon  earth,  or  this  planet  of  ousr, 
From  which  men's  cut  down  like  the  grass  or  the  flowers. 

But  still  he  is  living,  I  can't  think  him  dead, 
Although  his  great  spirit  from  earth  may  have  fled. 
For  still  in  ourselves  we  discover  his  ways, 
As  the  sun  o'er  the  landscape  in  shedding  his  rays, 
A  cloud  may  arise  and  cut  off  her  anew, 
The  brilliance  of  which  is  now  lost  to  the  view; 
But  still  the  effect  of  the  sun's  genial  beams 
O'er  the  landscape  and  earth,  the  watering  streams, 
Is  felt  o'er  the  wildest  of  Nature's  own  hills, 
The  genial  effect  of  the  shower  she  distills; 
Through  landscape  and  valleys  is  felt  still  sublime, 
Through  all  Nature's  fountains  and  various  clime. 
So  is  the  effect  of  the  mind  upon  mind; 
On  minds  not  so  fertile  how  often  we  find 
Ourselves  those  same  symptoms  prone  to  imitate 
The  great  man,  by  nature  the  only  man  great 
Indeed,  we  will  not  imitate  the  learned  man, 
Through  grave  looking  aspect  or  student  so  wan, 
Through  deep-thinking  research  or  fathomless  ways, 
Where  natural  sunbeams  near  sheds  forth  her  rays; 
But  where  Nature's  fountain  still  ready  to  flow 
For  all  fellow-creatures,  no  matter  how  low, 
Belongs  the  true  goodness  by  natural  cast, 
Which  worthy  of  all  things  and  always  to  last. 

And  if  he  has  left  here,  and  race  may  have  Tun, 
His  spirit's  transcended  from  father  to  son, 
And  time  and  the  future  are  sure  to  restore, 


THE  GBAVES  OF  THE  PATRIOTS.        97 

Like  spirit  which  left  us  and  fled  evermore; 
But,  O,  it  was  cruel  for  Death  on  his  way 
Not  spare  him  a  while  little  longer  to  stay, 
Enjoy  the  sweet  fruits  of  an  industrious  hand 
So  honestly  reaped  from  this  much  favored  land. 
Cut  off  at  a  time,  and  his  life  had  to  give 
When  just  as  he  might  think  him  ready  to  live. 
Now  who  will  we  look  to  for  fatherly  care, 
If  he  has  now  left  us,  or  "who  will  now  share 
Our  troubles  and  sorrows,  with  whom  here  below, 
When  heart  full  of  sorrow  now  where  shall  we  go  ? 
The  loss  is  a  great  one,  the  hand  and  the  rod 
Which  laid  the  affliction,  but  all  is  with  God. 


THE  GRAVES  OF  THE  PATRIOTS,  BAKER  AND 
THOMAS  STARR  KING. 


deep  sounding  roar  of  that  ocean, 

Strikes  over  the  hills  to  the  ear, 
And  whispers  the  depth  of  emotion, 
And  moistens  the  ground  with  a  tear 

For  the  dead  near  her  shore, 

Which  can  never  no  more 

Be  awoke  from  repose; 

For  all  silent  are  those 
Who  are  laid  near  the  side  of  her  crest  — 
Laid  in  peace  in  the  far  distant  West. 

How  many  are  laid  there  reposing 

Their  graves  and  their  monuments  tell, 
Their  lands  and  their  ages  disclosing, 
And  names  with  their  nations  as  well; 
And  the  marble  relate 
Where  the  great  men  of  State 
Sleep  beneath  its  cold  face, 
And  the  spot  where  to  trace 
5 


98        THE  GRAVES  OF  THE  PATRIOTS. 

Where  they  laid  them  away  at  their  rest, 
Near  the  shores  of  the  far  distant  West. 

Where  BAKER  is  quietly  sleeping, 

Who  died  for  his  country  to  save, 
The  dewdrops  of  ocean  are  weeping, 
Distilled  on  the  tablet  and  grave; 

Drops,  as  tears  on  the  sands, 

Where  no  monuments  stands, 

On  that  sacred  spot, 

Looking  nearly  forgot 
By  his  country,  for  which  he  bestowed 
His  pure  life's  blood,  on  which  it  has  flowed. 

The  grave  of  a  KING  is  in  hearing 

The  sound  of  that  great  ocean's  roar, 
As  it  moves  through  the  air,  still  revering 
Its  maker  in  deep  sounding  lore. 

But  that  evening  strain 

Of  that  deep  rolling  main 

Never  more  can  he  hear; 

Or  his  mellow  voice  clear 
Ever  tell  of  her  organ's  great  song, 
Or  the  music,  her  shores  all  along; 

For  laid  in  that  sepulchre  slumber, 

Reposing  in  death's  solemn  dream, 
How  quickly  his  days  they  were  numbered, 
While  passing  down  life's  fickle  stream, 

And  his  loss  was  the  more, 

To  a  country  he  bore 

Through  her  trials  so  vast, 

For  her  destiny  cast, 
With  his  eloquent  voice  for  to  stand 
By  the  flag  of  their  country  and  land. 

When  drifting  on  rocks  which  might  sever, 
With  crew  from  all  nations  on  hand, 

Not  knowing  her  fate,  or  if  ever 
She  would  reach  her  destiny's  land. 


TOE   GEAVES   OF   THE   PATKIOTS.  99 

How  the  sound  of  his  voice 

Made  his  people  rejoice, 

And  inspired  all  to  stand 

By  the  flag  of  their  land  ; 
And  a  sister  State,  though  she  was  young, 
Keep  her  place  with  her  sisters  among. 

The  pure  patriot's  words  all  admired, 

To  save  this  great  Union  in  strength, 
All  this  people  and  State  he  inspired, 
Throughout  its  great  size  and  its  length. 

In  her  people  suppressed, 

Of  that  spirit  possessed, 

Of  the  right  to  secede 

Which  they  then  did  concede, 
By  the  power  of  his  patriot  will, 
And  that  eloquent  voice  now  so  still, 

In  his  church-yard  now  stands  all  alone 

The  marble  to  show  where  he  rests; 
'Neath  his  chapel  as  monument  stone, 
For  that  was  his  will  and  request 

While  that  liberal  mind 

Will  that  charity  find, 

His  great  spirit  possessed, 

Which  has  gone  to  its  rest, 
And  his  liberal  doctrine  is  found 
To  encircle  this  planet  all  round. 

His  memory  still  with  emotion 

His  people  still  cherish  so  dear, 
And  often,  in  silent  devotion 
Is  moistened  the  eye  with  a  tear 

When  that  name  's  mentioned  o'er, 

Is  still  sure  to  restore 

Recollections  and  time, 

When  his  voice  so  sublime, 
In  those  eloquent  strains  did  arise 
Irrepressible,  prudent,  and  wise. 


100  TO  THE  AUTHOR'S  NEICE. 


LINES 

WRITTEN   AT  THE    DEATH-BED  OF   THE    AUTHOR^    NEICE,  WHO 
DIED    OF    CONSUMPTION. 

THE  day  star  of  life  is  still  waning, 
The  flickering  light  still  is  feigning 
To  pierce  through  the  gloom 
Of  the  distance,  but  weaker, 
Still  weaker,  but  meeker; 

The  time  to  go  out  must  be  soon. 

The  sunshine  of  life  disappearing, 

The  noon-time  of  life,  though  so  cheering, 

Is  passing  away. 

The  rose-bud  of  life  was  but  blooming, 
The  lifetime  of  youth  was  but  nooning, 

When  sapped  by  the  worm  of  decay. 

u 

The  foe  of  all  earth's  habitation 
Struck  low,  at  the  very  foundation, 

With  aim  that  was  sure. 
And  sapping  the  veins  of  life's  glowing, 
All  hopes  for  the  future  overthrowing, 

And  hoping  was  but  to  allure. 

The  stream  of  life's  ebbing  and  flowing, 
But  lower  and  weaker  she's  growing, 

And  passing  away. 

The  husband,  long  patient  in  watching, 
Each  word  from  her  last,  low  words  catching, 

Won't  have  her  long  with  him  to  stay. 

Dear  mother,  your  daughter  is  dying, 
The  time  is  now  short,  and  is  flying, 

And  father  I  fear — 

Come  near,  for  my  breathing's  oppressing; 
Come  near  me,  and  give  me  your  blessing, 

And  tell  all  my  sisters,  come  near. 


LONE   MOUNTAIN.  ~       101 

But  don't  let  me  die  without  bringing 
My  baby,  who  round  my  bed  clinging 

In  infant-like  charms; 
The  curling  hair  she  possesses, 
These  skeleton  hands  made  those  tresses, 

When  on  my  knee  sitting  in  arms. 

And  friends,  and  relations,  and  brother, 
I'll  bid  you  adieu  for  another 

Sphere,  distant  to  come; 
For  dying  is  only  the  giving, 
Or  sowing  the  seeds  of  the  living, 

Which  blooms  in  the  garden  of  home. 


LONE  MOUNTAIN. 

THAT  mountain  looks  lonely  and  lonesome  at  best; 
No  wonder  they  named  it  Lone  Mountain 
As  it  stands  on  the  verge  of  the  far  distant  west; 
In  its  bosom  how  many  a  pioneer  rest 

In  their  graves,  in  that  still,  quiet  mou  itain? 

The  surface  is  carved,  and  all  points  to  the  skies; 

Those  monuments  stand  by  that  mountain, 
For  to  tell  where  the  men  from  all  nations  now  lies, 
And  that  many  have  died  from  their  kindred  and  ties, 

In  their  graves  in  this  far  distant  mountain. 

The  glittering  gold-fields  so  near  to  the  sun 

When  setting  behind  that  Lone  Mountain; 
But  reflections  of  placers  so  far  now  begun, 
Holding  forth  such  inducements,  which  many  have  run 
But  to  sleep  in  their  graves  in  Lone  Mountain. 

The  young  and  the  venturesome,  bold  and  so  brave, 

Once  home  far  away  from  that  mountain. 
In  the  prime  of  their  manhood  all  doubting  must  waiv, 


102  LONE  MOUNTAIN. 

For  enchanting  the  distance,  in  many  a  cave 
Lays  the  treasure  still  hid,  near  that  mountain. 

The  color  is  yellow,  and  nothing  to  fear, 

In  land  so  far  west,  near  that  mountain. 
As  the  farmer  and  craftsman,  with  many  a  tear, 
Left  their  children  so  small,  and  their  wife  to  them  d  ear 

But  to  rest  in  that  far  distant  mountain. 

And  the  man  with  rich  talents,  his  mind  on  the  place, 

Still  westward  inclines  to  that  mountain, 
For  the  sunsets  so  yellow,  he  cannot  efface 
From  his  mind,  though  himself  is  the  pride  of  his  race, 
But  he  must  see  the  land  near  that  mountain. 

Now  great  growing  city,  so  near  to  the  gate,. 

Arising  so  grand  near  that  mountain, 
Which  the  living  feel  proud  of,  but  just  contemplate 
Of  the  growth  of  that  city,  which  hard  to  relate, 

Grows  as  fast  with  the  dead  in  Lone  Mountain. 

They  hail  from  all  countries  and  climes  upon  earth,. 

As  laid  by  the  foot  of  Lone  Mountain. 
And  the  monuments  tell  of  the  men  of  great  worth, 
And  place  where  they  come  from,  and  place  of  their 
birth. 

Now  asleep  by  the  side  of  Lone  Mountain. 

There  sleeps  the  pure  patriots,  Baker  and  King, 

In  sepulchre  laid  near  that  mountain. 
To  their  eloquent  voices,  how  memory  cling, 
And  those  words  touched,  inspired  by  an  angelic  wing, 

Ne'er  more  to  be  heard  near  Lone  Mountain. 

And  there  sleeps  the  dead,  who  as  students  of  will, 
Graced  surgery's  aid  near  that  mountain, 

And  who  stood  at  the  head  as  Professor  and  skill, 

Always  ready  to  aid  the  unfortunate  still, 

But  now  gone  to  their  graves,  in  Lone  Mountain. 


LONE   MOUNTAIN.  103 

How  many  a  student  in  medicine  test 

Is  laid  to  repose  in  that  mountain  ? 
Where  no  call  can  awake  them,  or  patient's  request 
Can  disturb  their  deep  sleep,  for  they  have  found  a  rest 

Ne'er  disturbed  or  awoke,  in  Lone  Mountain. 

Their  monuments'  shafts  rises  high  to  relate 
From  hill  looking  west  to  that  mountain; 
And  to  tell  where  a  Broderick,  or  great  man  of  State, 
Lies  still  in  its  bosom,  who  met  with  his  fate 
For  his  country,  now  laid  in  Lone  Mountain. 

The  clear,  mellow  voice,  is  now  hushed  in  repose, 

In  tribunal  courts,  near  that  mountain, 
Where  so  often  in  eloquent  strains  has  arose 
In  the  hearing  of  judges  and  jurors,  and  those 

Of  a  Byrne,  now  asleep,  near  Lone  Mountain. 

They  are  all  now  at  rest,  where  the  eloquent  sound 

Of  ocean  is  heard,  near  that  mountain; 
Where  she  outward  and  inward,  unceasing  bound, 
Ne'er  resting  at  ease,  as  the  dead  all  around, 

In  their  graves  by  the  side  of  Lone  Mountain. 

• 
The  sound  of  her  voice,  as  her  children's  asleep, 

In  whispering  tones  near  that  mountain, 
And  as  though  in  a  lullaby,  quiet  would  keep, 
Or  the  silence  which  death  makes  when  moved  for  to 
weep, 

She  displays  for  her  dead  in  Lone  Mountain. 

What  matter  it  now  to  the  still,  quiet  dead, 

Though  rage  as  she  may,  near  that  mountain  ? 
But  how  vast  is  the  contrast,  no  sound  or  a  tread 
Since  released  from  their  anguish,  or  from  a  death  bed, 
Is  e'er  heard  by  the  side  of  Lone  Mountain. 

No  place  upon  earth,  for  the  dead  to  repose, 
More  suitable  is  than  that  mountain, 


104  LONE  MOUNTAIN. 

Where  the  requiem  music  still  chanting  for  those, 
And  the  winds  from  that  ocean,  her  anthem  disclose 
For  repose  of  the  dead  in  Lone  Mountain. 

The  cross  lifted  np  to  the  top  of  the  mount, 

As  signal  of  agony *s  fountain, 
To  the  world  and  the  living,  to  show  what  a  fount,, 
Giving  manifestation  to  all  what  account 

They  are  of,  by  the  side  of  Lone  Mountain. 

Through  thick  and  dense  fogs,  comes  the  tones  of  the 
bell, 

In  moans  o'er  the  sand-hills  and  mountain, 
And  it  mingles  that  same  solemn  note  for  to  tell, 
With  that  voice  from  the  ocean  still  chanting  as  well,. 

For  repose  of  the  dead  in  Lone  Mountain. 

Sleep  on  then,  what  better  can  Nature  do  more 
For  repose  of  the  dead  in  Lone  Mountain  ? 

Than  to  sing  through  the  winds  of  that  great  ocean's 
roar, 

For  the  dead,  now  reposing  not  far  from  her  shore, 
Ne'er  to  wake  until  called  from  Lone  Mountain. 


RECOLLECTIONS.  105 


ON  RECOLLECTIONS 

OF   HEARING  FATHER  TAILOR  PREACH  A    SERMON  TO  THE  SAIL- 
ORS IN  THE  OLD  BETHEL  CHURCH,  NORTH  SQUARE,  BOSTON. 

THE  flag-staff  was  waving  its  banner  that  hour 
So  playfully  round  from  that  old  Bethel  tower; 
And  playful  it  fluttered,  and  proud  seemed  to  be, 
The  pride  of  the  brave,  in  the  land  of  the  free. 

The  day  was  the  Sabbath,  and  called  by  the  bell, 
The  church-going  people,  the  seamen  as  well, 
Had  come  from  the  distance,  away  from  afar, 
To  hear  of  the  tidings  of  Bethelem  Star. 

Her  gates  thrown  open,  so  wide  to  aflord, 
That  plain,  hallowed  temple,  was  free  to  His  word, 
While  faithful's  the  watchman  on  Zion's  fair  wall, 
Still  faithful  to  duty,  attends  to  his  call. 

He  enters  her  gates,  and  ascends  to  his  post, 
For  beauteous  Zion,  her  walls  he  loves  most; 
He  opens  the  book,  and  commences  to  read, 
With  voice  still  so  mellow,  and  earnest  indeed. 

The  hymn  so  sincerely,  and  words  read  so  clear, 
Which  swelled  the  great  heart  of  the  seamen  to  hear, 
While  sweet  sounds  of  music  came  murmuring  forth, 
Reminding  the  sailor  the  place  of  his  birth. 

Then  fervent  in  prayer  he  did  earnestly  kneel, 
The  great  supplication  so  earnest  they  feel; 
Then  opened  the  Gospel,  in  love  did  proceed 
The  mind  of  the  mariner  now  for  to  lead. 

In  calls  for  the  sinner  to  hear  the  bequest 
Of  pardoning  grace  from  their  sins  now  to  rest. 
"O,  turn  you  !  O,  turn  you  \"  in  tears  he  did  cry; 
My  Master  and  Captain  he  also  asks  why. 


106  EBB   ON  THE   SIDE   OF  MERCY. 

Shall  the  bosom  of  love  in  vain  bear  the  loss 
Of  a  well  beloved  Son  to  be  nailed  to  the  cross  ? 
Forbid  it,  great  Captain;  thy  mercy  we  seek, 
While  tears  found  deep  channels  to  course  down  his 
cheek. 

The  heart  of  the  mariner  swelled  to  the  cry, 
And  few  were  in  hearing,  but  tears  dimmed  their  eye; 
But  now  he  has  gone  from  that  plain  hallowed  spot 
The  way  of  all  flesh  and  the  way  and  the  lot. 

He  has  crossed  o'er  the  stream,  in  safety  he  rides,. 
Safe  anchored  from  winds,  or  the  eddies,  or  tides, 
Or  the  whirlpools  of  life,  uncertain  at  best, 
Enjoying  a  peaceful  repose  with  the  blest. 

How  often  in  rapture  he  looked  to  the  skies, 
To  tell  to  the  seamen,  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
The  place  where  to  anchor,  his  chart  in  his  hand. 
The  Bible  his  chart,  by  Divinity  planned. 

Of  Bethlehem  Star  and  the  wise  men  of  old, 
That  plan  of  redemption  how  often  he's  told, 
To  seamen  and  landsmen  from  distance  afar, 
How  often  has  told  of  that  Bethlehem  Star, 


ERR  ON  THE  SIDE  OF  MERCY, 

ERR  on  "the  side  of  mercy, 
If  err  we  must  at  all; 
Imperfect  all  in  judgment, 
In  error  we  must  falL 

Imperfect  in  our  judgments,. 

Imperfect  one  and  all, 
But  let  us  err  in  mercy, 

In  error  we  must  falL 


EBB   ON   THE   SIDE   OF   MERCY.  107 

If  error,  still  'tis  noble 

If  mercy  we  incline, 
And  scale  is  turned  by  mercy 

In  making  up  our  mind. 

That  creature  siill  is  noble 

His  fellow-men  among, 
If  still  inclines  to  mercy 

And  fears  he  might  be  wrong. 

His  fellow-man  condemning, 

Like  error  he  is  prone, 
And  must  receive  same  mercy 

When  at  the  judgment  throne. 

For  who  can  sit  in  judgment, 

Or  tell  the  inmost  thought, 
Or  that  which  was  promoter 

Of  error  which  him  caught. 

His  mind  made  weak  by  nature, 

So  often  overcome 
By  promptings  strong  to  error, 

Which  bred  and  born  in  some. 

That  mercy  still  is  wanting, 

Can  see  through  good  and  bad, 
Alike  through  all  creation, 

The  joyful  and  the  sad. 

For  all  is  good  through  nature, 

Ne'er  altered  is  her  law, 
Fixed  as  the  earth  and  ocean 

Before  the  light  we  saw. 

Those  laws  were  given  nature, 

She  ne'er  could  violate, 
So  that  which  will  befall  us, 

Whatever  is  our  fate. 


108  EKB  ON   THE   SIDE   OF  MERCY. 

All  to  those  laws  must  succumb, 
The  consequence  what  may; 

All  must  fulfill  her  dictates — 
No  one  can  e'er  say  nay. 

Till  all  alike  she  makes  us 
By  death  in  silent  sleep, 

She  makes  for  to  pass  o'er  us, 
No  more  in  trouble  weep. 

Then  all  receive  that  mercy 
Which  felt  among  the  blest, 

All  subject  to  same  judgment 
To  others  they  behest. 

Then  all  incline  to  mercy, 

In  error  all  must  fall; 
There's  no  such  thing  as  perfect 

On  this  terrestrial  ball. 

The  very  air  uncertain 

We  breathe,  made  so  by  change „ 
While  all  the  earth  is  changing, 

To  all  its  center  range. 

Her  veins  are  cold  and  chilly, 
At  others  hot  and  warm; 

At  times  burst  forth  in  fury. 
In  terrible  alarm. 

And  then  her  sea  and  oceans. 

At  times  in  awful  rage, 
And  then  so  calm  and  gentle* 

When  anger  does  assuage. 

Her  climate  and  her  nature,. 

We  all  to  earth  belong, 
Her  nourishment  partaking,. 

As  parent  all  among. 


ERR   ON  THE   SIDE   OF   MERCY.  109 

Her  mountains  and  her  valleys 

To  that  same  mother  cling, 
As  infant  in  its  nursing, 

Our  nourishment  she  bring. 

And  all  of  that  same  nature 

Which  changes  through  all  time, 
At  times  in  rage  and  frenzy, 

May  end  in  haste  and  crime. 

And  all  inclined  by  nature, 

By  that  same  way  and  change, 
As  mother  earth  herself  is, 

Which  nature's  laws  arrange. 

And  then  in  hasty  moments 

The  promptings  don't  withstand, 
Act  out  her  lawful  dictates, 

And  by  her  own  command. 

Then  God  may  help  the  victim 

By  passion  made  a  wreck, 
Acts  out  what  can't  be  undone, 

But  still  remains  a  speck. 

Upon  the  name,  and  nothing 

Can  blot  that  speck  or  stain, 
Although  it's  Nature's  impress, 

Forever  it  remain. 

The  world  it  leaves  a  frowning 

On  them  where'r  they  be; 
Themselves  she  leaves  reproaching, 

But  never  can  get  free. 

Then  life  itself  is  poisoned, 

While  all  of  nature  teems 
With  life's  pure  flowing  fountains 

And  her  pure  running  streams. 


110  THE  AUTHOE'S  WIFE. 

And  nothing  left  but  bitter, 
Or  streams  which  never  pure, 

But  galling  thoughts  reproachful 
For  that  which  did  allure. 

That  mercy  still  is  wanting, 

Can  see  through  good  and  bad, 

Alike  through  all  creation, 
The  joyful  and  the  sad. 

Then  all  incline  to  mercy, 
And  blot  a  brother's  stain; 

From  mother  earth  he  nursed  it, 
And  from  our  mother's  vein. 


LINES 
ON  THE  AUTHOR'S  WIFE,  WHO  DIED  OF  CONSUMPTION  IN  BOSTON. 

OMARY,  how  can  I  now  think  of  the  time 
Or  the  days  of  our  youth  now  gone  past, 
When  creation  and  life  in  those  days  then  sublime, 

Which  soon  faded  and  gone  from  us  fast  ? 
Those  days  when  at  longest  then  endless  would  seem, 
But  now  all  has  gone  past  and  it  seems  but  a  dream. 

Those  days  when  you  looked  for  the  night  for  to  come, 
And  the  time  when  you  watched  from  the  floor 

How  my  footsteps  you  knew  in  the  distance  from  home, 
Long  before  I  had  come  to  the  door, 

Those  days  still  how  quickly  they  all  passed  away, 

And  how  short  was  the  time  when  we  wished  it  to  stay. 

Those  days  I  won't  think  of,  I  cannot  well  try, 

And  besides  they  have  gone  now  so  far, 
But  will  just  take  a  glimpse  at  the  time  now  gone  by, 


THE  AUTHOK'S  WIFE.  Ill 

Is  the  most  I  can  do,  as  the  star 
Of  life  is  at  noontime — before  it  gets  past, 
I  will  take  a  last  look,  for  it  may  be  the  last. 

We  lived  and  we  loved,  my  dear  May,  too  well; 

It  was  wicked  an  idol  to  make 
Of  each  other  the  reason  that  what  us  befell, 

When  to  leave  you  I  did  for  your  sake; 
But  thinking  my  fortune  to  better  in  land, 
And  again  to  return  to  my  Mary  was  planned. 

We  parted — how  well  I  remember  the  time: 

Bid  adeiu  to  the  children  so  small, 
For  the  land  where  the  treasure  and  gold  and  the  clime 

Was  enchanting  and  ready  for  all; 
Arriving  in  distance  from  perilous  way, 
Where  I  tried  all  I  could  for  to  shorten  my  stay. 

But  distance  was  far  for  my  Mary  to  live, 

And  she  longed  for  to  live  as  before; 
For  the  time  was  so  long  that  she  could  not  wtll  give, 

And  she  wanted  me  home  all  the  more. 
I  wrote  of  the  place:  if  she  would  she  might  come 
To  the  land  of  much  promise  and  make  us  a  home. 

She  came,  and  our  cottage  was  near  to  the  hill, 
Where  we  lived  with  our  children  four; 

But  the  delicate  flower,  which  the  harsh  winds  do  ill, 
And  which  chill  to  the  heart  and  the  core — 

They  came  with  that  blight  which  strikes  withering  decay. 

Left  but  death,  which  was  certain  and  fading  away. 

My  Mary  we  laid  in  that  tomb  by  the  pond 
Where  it  circles  all  round  with  a  fence, 

And  my  heart  still  is  bleeding  for  her  who  so  fond 
Lived  for  me,  with  so  little  pretense. 

She's  laid  in  that  tomb  by  the  pond  or  the  lake, 

In  the  still  sleep  of  death,  where  no  winds  can  awake. 


112  THE  PRODIGAL   SON. 

She  lies  in  that  cold  house  of  death  far  from  here, 
Where  the  cold  Eastern  winters  still  pass, 

Where  the  harsh  and  cold  winds  never  trouble  or  fear 
Or  the  delicate  flower  more  harass; 

The  flower  was  too  delicate  for  to  withstand, 

And  it  was  but  transplanted  to  climate  or  land 

More  suitable,  where  the  harsh  winds  or  the  frost, 
Or  the  whispering  winds  as  they  pass, 

Or  with  all  of  Ife's  ills  to  be  troubled  and  crossed, 
Then  to  die  as  the  withering  grass. 

Too  pure  was  that  heart  and  that  life  and  that  love, 

Was  the  reason  that  she  was  transplanted  above. 


PARABLE  OF  THE  PRODIGAL  SON.— COMMENT. 

THIS  parable  illustrates  well 
Of  father,  son, — what  tongue  can  tell, 
%Parental  love  more  pure; 
For  when  the  younger  son  became 
Inspired  throughout  his  youthful  frame, 

His  portion  to  secure, 
Impatient  waiting  time  (he  thought)  so  long, 
Asks  for  the  portion  which  to  him  belong. 

How  true  to  nature  was  that  child, 
On  thoughts  of  distant  lands  he  smiled, 

Through  visions  of  the  far 
And  distant  lands  which  overcome, 
Which  led  him  from  his  father's  home 

To  distant  lands  afar; 
From  that  good  father  with  paternal  love, 
An  emblem  of  the  one  of  all — above. 

And  though  it  grieved  him  to  the  heart, 
His  youngest  son  to  with  him  part, 
Perhaps  to  ne'er  him  see; 


THE  PEODIGAL   SON.  118 

His  son  so  tender  yet  of  years, 

What  sorrow  and  what  silent  tears 

Stole  down  his  cheeks;  so  free, 
To  part  with  him  who  was  his  joy  and  pride, 
And  lost  to  him  upon  this  world  so  wide. 

In  silent  and  in  troubled  look, 
The  father  now  upon  him  took 

His  living  to  divide 
With  him,  who  never  was  away 
From  home  one  night  before  to  stay; 

Or  from  his  father's  side 
Long  journey  in  far  distant  lands  to  take, 
While  that  paternal  heart  is  like  to  break. 

But  for  a  foreign  country  still, 
His  portion  now  has  got,  and  will 

Soon  with  the  harlots  spent, 
Until  a  famine  came,  and  then 
Now  money  gone  he  felt  as  when 

He  from  his  father  went, 
Till  in  the  fields,  with  want  and  hungar  pine. 
And  longing  for  the  husks  they  fed  their  swine* 

But  says,  I  will  arise  and  pray, 
Unto  my  father  thus  wll  say: 
Dear  father,  I  have  sined. 
'Gainst  heaven,  and  in  thy  sight  no  more, 
I  am  unworthy  to  restore, 

Or  with  thee  e'er  be  kind, 
Me  make  as  one  of  thy  hired  servants  meek, 
So  I  may  homeward  go  thy  favor  seek. 

I  will  arise,  to  my  father  go, 

The  first  resolve  but  made,  when  lol 

In  that  direction  went. 
The  father  sees  him  far  away, 
His  long  lost  son,  he  hears  him  say; 
No  messenger  he  sent, 


114  THE   PKODIGAL   SON. 

But  ran  to  him  in  the  distance  wide, 

No  vengeance  then,  or  e'en  his  son  did  chide. 

But  arms  of  mercy  arond  him  threw, 
His  long  lost  son,  he  yet  him  knew. 
Though  changed  to  human  sight, 
With  harlots,  though  in  dens  did  file, 
Is  yet  his  son,  yet  all  the  while, 

Yet  never  did  him  slight, 
But  ran  to  meet  him  with  that  joy  divine, 
He  saw  him  coming, — far  from  feeding  swine. 

What  language  can  in  justice  dwell, 
When  that  paternal  heart  did  swell 

With  joy,  to  meet  his  child. 
And  ran  to  meet  him  with  what  joy, 
His  long  lost  son,  his  youngest  boy, 

From  paths  and  ways  so  wile. 
"  Bring  forth  the  robe  so  new/'  he  says,  "  Put  on, 
And  shoes  upon  his  feet" — his  long  lost  son. 

Once  dead  is  yet  alive  and  sound, 
His  long  lost  son,  he  has  been  found. 

A  ring  put  on  his  hand, 
The  fatted  calf  is  ordered  killed, 
With  joy  that  father's  heart  is  filled, 

There's  music  o'er  the  land, 
And  dancing  in  that  home,  what  joy  and  pride, 
His  long  lost  son  is  home  now  to  reside. 

What  glory  to  this  world  to  know 
This  Father  is  of  all  below, 
The  same  to  all  his  sons 
And  daughters  on  this  earth  and  ours, 
Where  monuments  of  kindred  towers, 

And  kindred  blood  still  runs; 
From  age  to  age  his  sons  begot  the  same, 
And  all  of  us  from  that  same  Father  came. 


THE  PRODIGAL   SON.  115 

I  will  arise,  was  all  was  said, 
And  who  alive  to  vice  so  wed 

Of  all  his  children  now 
But  can  the  word  repeat  anew 
To  that  same  Father  which  so  flew, 

And  all  will  still  allow 

That  that  same  Father  now  which  distance  mar, 
Still  sees  his  long  lost  children  coming  far. 

"  I  will  arise,"  who  cannot  say, 
Though  portion  spent  and  far  away, 

Long  lost  to  sin  and  shame, 
And  altered  by  the  lapse  of  years, 
By  trouble,  and  through  sorrow's  tears, 

None  but  ourselves  to  blame, 
But  sinning  against  Heaven  and  in  His  sight, 
Not  worthy  to  be  called  his  son  by  right. 

"  I  will  arise,  though  steeped  in  sin, 
And  long  lost  from  my  father's  kin, 

And  unto  him  will  say: 
*  Against  thee  I  have  sinned  in  sight 
Of  Heaven,  long  been  from  paths  of  right, 

Unworthy  for  to  pray/" 

Now  that  same  Father,  filled  with  love  and  zest, 
Still  runs  to  meet  his  children  east  or  west. 

And  when  to  meet  them,  on  them  place 
His  arms,  his  children's  lineage  trace 

In  them,  though  long  been  lost 
In  paths  so  low  in  every  line, 
With  harlots  and  of  feeding  swine; 

No  matter  where  been  tossed, 
That  Father  sees  us  come,  good  and  wise> 
If  we  but  to  ourselves  will  say,  "  Arise,'* 


116  ON     A  RETURN  VISIT   HOME. 


REFLECTIONS 

ON  A  RETUEN  VISIT  HOME  AFTER  A  TWENTY  YEARS  ABSENCE  IN 
CALIFORNIA. 

I  am  home  on  a  visit  to  be, 
My  relations  and  friends  for  to  see. 

Since  I've  been  them  among 

O,  the  time  has  been  long, 
And  I  want  now  to  see  if  they  will 
Have  remembered  and  thought  of  me  still, 

And  warmly  greet  me 

Whenever  they  meet  me, 
For  the  time  has  been  long  Fve  been  gone, 
•  Now  I'll  see  who  will  welcome  me  home. 

Ah,  when  first  I  left  home  in  the  Fall, 
My  poor  mother  was  dead,  which  was  all; 

But  Fve  been  so  long  out 

On  a  gold  hunting  scout 
In  the  land  so  far  off  in  the  West 
That  I  now  hear  of  some  of  the  rest 

Of  my  kindred  have  died; 

Yes,  how  many  have  died  ? 
For  now  both  of  my  parents  are  dead, 
And  my  wife  and  her  parents  have  fled. 

O,  dear  nature  of  all  what  a  change, 
And  how  can  I  ever  arrange 

In  my  mind  this  is  so, 

That  my  folks  are  laid  low, 
And  can  never  more  see  them  alive, 
Or  can  evermore  hope  to  derive 

1  he  joy  for  to  see  them ; 

O,  no,  I'll  ne'er  see  them  ; 
They  are  gone  to  their  last  resting  place, 
And  how  can  I  their  memory  efface. 


ON  A  RETURN  VISIT  HOME.  117 

They  have  moved  to  a  house  covered  o'er 
With  green  grass  and  a  cold  iron  door, 

Where  the  wintet's  winds  groan 

On  the  granate  and  stone, 
By  the  cheeks  of  that  arch -covered  door, 
As  I've  mentioned  and  said  here  before; 

With  its  floor  damp  and  cold, 

But  they  cannot  take  cold, 
Nor  the  harsh  flowing  winters  in  flight 
E'er  disturb  them,  or  wake  them  by  night. 

What  a  tenement  thus  to  behold, 
And  so  many  for  Death  to  enfold 

In  his  chilly  embrace, 

In  this  grass-covered  place. 
Since  I  left  here  has  giade  them  his  prey; 
No !  nor  would  he  as  much  as  delay 

Till  I'd  see  them  again. 

I'll  ne'er  see  them  again, 
But  from  sorrow  and  trouble  they're  free 
If  they  ne'er  can  again  look  on  me. 

What  a  house  for  to  welcome  within, 
And  so  cold  from  so  many  of  kin 

As  they  lay  side  by  side, 

Where  there's  none  to  deride 
In  their  house  covered  over  with  clay. 
And  with  no  one  to  envy  or  say, 

That  they  covet  their  home. 

In  their  still  quiet  home, 
Where  so  damp  and  so  chilly  its  breath, 
And  so  cold  and  so  silent  in  death. 

They  are  laid  side  by  side,  two  and  two 

As  they  should,  for  they  lived  their  life  through 

Without  going  away 

From  each  other  astray; 
Through  the  term  of  their  natural  life, 
They  have  lived  it  all  through  man  and  wife, 


118  ON  A  BETUKN  VISIT   HOME. 

Until  death  came  along. 

Ah,  cold  death  came  along, 
And  them  summoned  to  pay  him  his  tithe, 
As  when  ripe  for  his  sickle  and  scythe. 

And  they  did  not  refuse,  but  rejoiced 
For  to  lay  where  disturbance  and  noise 

Is  all  hushed  in  repose, — 

Where  the  still  sleep  of  those, 
And  where  family  discord  ne'er  comes 
To  disturb  in  their  still  quiet  homes; 

Or  where  strife  is  ne'er  heard, 

Not  a  word  is  e'er  heard 
For  to  wake  or  disturb  them  asleep, 
Nor  is  ever  with  grief  caused  to  weep. 


Now  their  sleep  is  so  quiet  and  still 
In  that  spot  by  the  side  of  the  hill, 

Where  no  dreams  to  disturb, 

Or  vile  passions  to  curb, 
Or  original  promptings  to  wrong 
Can  e'er  trouble  or  come  them  among; 

For  their  fate's  all  the  same, 

All  returning  the  same; 
Their  deep  sleep  everlasting  decreed. 
And  from  all  further  trouble  are  freed. 

What  can  man  have  so  good  as  still  rest? 
Or  can  kings,  queens  or  princes  be  blest, 

Or  with  anything  more 

Than  what  they  have  in  store, 
As  they  lie  side  by  side  all  at  ease, 
And  with  no  one  to  trouble  or  please, 

In  all  changes  the  same  ? 

For  all  things  are  the  same 
To  them  now  in  all  shapes  and  all  form, 
And  they  ne'er  can  be  woke  by  the  storm. 


ON  A   RETURN  VISIT   HOME.  119 

They  have  brought  with  them  all  they  can  bring, 
And  are  equal  to  prince  now  or  king, 

As  they  lie  there  in  state, 

Nature  to  recreate, 

And  come  back  to  their  mother  again; 
For  as  no  one  on  earth  can  refrain 

In  her  bosom  to  lay, 

In  her  bosom  must  lay, 
Or  before  they  can  fairly  reach  home, 
To  the  bosom  of  earth  all  must  come. 

What  can  years  be  to  them  now,  alas ! 
Or  the  centuries'  roll  as  they  pass; 

While  the  earth  rolls  around, 

With  her  age  never  found, 
Or  how  long  she  was  made  before  they 
Were  called  forth  from  the  planet  of  clay 

By  the  laws  of  their  parent, 

Their  natural  parent, 
With  her  laws  true  to  nature  sublime, 
Ne'er  consulted  or  asked  them  their  time  ? 

But  since  Nature  has  now  had  her  will 
And  no  laws  but  her  own  to  fulfill, 

Or  her  purpose  to  be, 

And  with  none  to  agree 
With  humanity  just  as  she  may, 
And  no  one  but  herself  to  obey, 

But  herself  for  to  please, 

Nothing  adverse  to  please, 
But  is  sovereign,  all  things  in  all 
Could  not  make  a  mistake  in  their  call. 

Or  to  call  mortal  creatures  to  care 

From  they  know  not  themselves  nor  from  where, 

From  the  time  they  came  forth 

To  inhabit  this  earth; 
Generations  through  life  as  they  pass, 
Then  to  all  be  cut  down  as  the  grass, 


120  ON  A  EETUBN  VISIT  HOME. 

Deeompose  all  alike, 

All  return  alike 

To  the  place  they  were  taken  to  live, 
And  then  all  which  they  got  had  to  give. 

O,  no,  Nature  could  ne'er  been  engaged 
In  so  trifling  a  way,  or  have  waged 

Such  a  war  to  destroy 

Those  to  life  she  employ 
And  exterminate  them  when  she  please; 
As  the  ax  to  the  root  of  the  trees, 

Or  what  pleasure  to  sport, 

With  poor  mortals  to  sport, 
With  death's  agonies  filling  the  air, 
And  a  dying  in  grief  and  despair. 

No;  as  Nature  could  ne'er  been  engaged, 
No,  however  so  much  she's  enraged, 

With  humanity  crossed 

As  the  ocean  is  tossed, 
Or  her  wrongs  being  never  so  much, 
As  with  life  here  us  poor  mortals  touch 

With  existence  and  life, 

And  creation  and  life, 
And  at  will  cut  us  down  in  distress, 
And  as  leaving  mankind  no  redress. 

IJong  before  human  form  wore  a  robe, 
Long  before  there  was  life  on  this  globe, 

All  was  still  and  at  rest, 

Then  with  peace  all  were  blest, 
All  humanity  then  was  at  ease; 
And  to  say  now  or  think  as  we  please, 

For  then  all  never  sinned, 

No,  for  none  ever  sinned, 
In  the  thousands  of  years  without  form 
All  infallible  was  until  born. 


ON  A   RETURN  VISIT   HOME.  121 

And  what  vengeance  was  there  to  repay, 
To  disturb  the  dead  slumbering  clay  ? 

And  poor  mortals  create, 

And  with  mankind  his  mate-, 
Which  has  been  on  earth's  surface  so  long, 
Here  in  millions  in  prolific  throng, 

But  have  perished  and  gone, 

Grown,  and  perished,  and  gone, 
And  returned  to  that  place  all  the  same, 
And  from  which  all  humanity  came. 

And  nature  would  have  stopped  long  ago 
To  create  and  recreate  so, 

If  ho  purpose  or  way, 

Or  had  aught  to  obey, 
But  give  creatures  a  glimpse  of  the  sun; 
Then  their  sad  journey  over  and  run, 

And  come  back  then  again 

To  their  mother  again; 
She  would  natural  offspring  refrain, 
And  would  sicken  from  labor  and  pain. 

There  must  something  more  grand  to  perform 
Than  give  birth  unto  poor  human  form, 

Then  to  call  them  away 

To  their  cold  house  of  clay, 
Then  on  earth  in  her  bosom  to  sleep, 
And  with  no  one  alive  who  can  keep 

From  returning  decay; 

For  all  must  decay 

And  become,  in  the  great  lapse  of  time, 
A  still  atom  of  Nature's  own  clime. 

But  who  is  there,  if  they  had  their  will, 
Just  in  peace  would  as  leave  have  lain  still  ? 

Here  attached  in  some  way 

To  this  planet  of  clay; 
But  in  some  way,  we  cannot  tell  how, 
Yet  as  all  will  now  think  and  avow 
6 


122  ON  A  BETTJRN  VISIT  HOME. 

That  in  peace  they  have  lain, 

Yes,  through  centuries  lain 
In  repose  through  those  thousands  of  years, 
And  ne'er  dreading  the  future  with  fears. 

No,  they  never  had  a  fear  or  a  dread, 
Or  had  read  about  what  has  been  said 

Of  a  world  to  come, 

Or  the  teachings  of  some 
That  they  came  here  without  their  consent, 
And  that  all  must  alike  be  content 

With  a  lingering  death; 

Though  life  struggling  with  death, 
That  another  of  terror  awaits 
From  what  Nature  herself  recreates. 

No,  who  would  not  much  rather  have  been  void 
And  slept  on  a  in  peaceful  alloid, 

To  this  planet  secured? 

There  was  nothing  endured, 
Than  to  run  such  sad  chances  as  these, 
But  to  think  of  would  chill  and  would  freeze 

The  blood  of  a  tyrant, 

No  monster  or  tyrant, 
Or  that  anything  ever  was  made 
On  himself  would  draw  such  a  tirade. 

And  this  world  would  have  never  been  made 
To  revolve  in  the  sun  and  the  shade. 

If  that  was  intended 

It  soon  would  have  ended, 
Or  would  ne'er  been  a  planet  at  all 
To  revolve  on  its  axis  as  a  ball 

In  its  sphere  round  the  sun, 

In  its  course  round  the  sun; 
No,  it  ne'er  would  been  placed  here  so  grand, 
Or  if  nothing  was  better  for  man. 

For  this  beautiful  world  so  immense, 
So  that  man  cannot  make  much  pretense 


ON  A  RETURN  VISIT   HOME.  123 

For  to  know  or  to  be, 

Or  have  time  for  to  see, 
Or  sublimeness  to  near  comprehend. 
For  the  time  is  so  short  here  we  spend, 

So  uncertain  and  short, 

Yes,  uncertain  and  short, 
Being  so  short  and  uncertain  through  life 
By  the  ills  prone  to  mortals  so  rife, 

But  the  beautiful  birds  and  their  songs, 
All  so  merry  and  joyful  in  throngs, 

And  ne'er  thinking  of  death, 

They  inhale  the  sweet  breath 
Of  the  morning,  the  air  then  so  pure, 
And  ne'er  troubled,  uncertain  but  sure 

That  no  worse  e'er  awaits, 

Fears  a  worse  ever  waits, 
But  the  summers  of  life  they  enjoy, 
And  the  sweet  thrilling  notes  they  employ. 

And  the  beasts  in  the  forest  and  tree, 
Still  so  cheerful  and  playful  ne'er  see 

In  the  future  those  ills, 

Or  a  death-bed,  which  fills 
Up  the  mind  of  poor  man  with  such  dread; 
Or,jjthat  after  or  when  he  is  dead 

Still  another  awaits, — 

In  such  fear  still  awaits. 
In  his  mind  still  depicted  is  cast, 
In  his  being,  so  long  as  it  last. 

And  of  all  things  in  life  here  at  large, 
Was  mankind  here  as  lord,  in  his  charge, 

Yet  the  future  he  draws 

For  himself  by  the  laws, 
Which  no  reason  can  e'er  comprehend, 
Or  the  laws  of  Creation  amend ; 

But  for  mankind  alone, — 

Yes,  that  mankind  alone, — 
Him,  for  which  this  great  planet  was  made, 
On  himself  should  make  such  a  tirade. 


124  ON  A  EETUBN  VISIT  HOME. 

If  the  mind  of  mankind  is  above 

All  the  rest,  with  life's  gift  as  they  move 

On  this  surface  of  ground, 

Where  all  life's  to  be  found 
In  this  beautiful  world  with  its  hills. 
And  it  valleys,  and  forests,  and  rills, 

With  the  bloom  of  the  flower, 

'Midst  the  grass  and  the  flower, 
All  for  man  for  to  here  contemplate, 
And  to  never  himself  underrate. 

If  the  lillies  and  blades  here  are  clothed, 
Why  should  man  e'er  become  so  much  lothed 

With  himself,  or  to  think 

That  the  glorious  link, 
Or  the  pride  of  creation  forgot, 
Or  that  e'er  was  conceived  such  a  plot, 

For  to  make  him  be  less, 

Yes,  to  make  him  much  less,. 
When  so  much  he  is  better  than  they, 
And  which  Scripture  and  Nature  both  say  ? 

They  are  now  quite  as  rich  as  a  king, 
And  their  promise  as  good  for  to  bring 
With  them  now  to  the  tomb, 
Where  for  all  so  much  gloom; 
Where  the  rich  and  the  poor  are  the  same* 
As  for  all  in  this  poor  mortal  frame, 

For  death  is  not  partial; 
No  death  is  not  partial, 
For  the  level  he  holds  in  his  hand, 
Levels  rich  with  the  poor  of  the  land. 

And  although  they  were  aged  and  frail 
Yet  relentless  death  did  them  assail, 

Nor  ne'er  thought  of  their  age, 

Or  did  ever  assuage, 
Or  let  up  till  the  last  breath  was  drawn, 
And  then  had  them  put  under  this  lawn; 


ON  A  BETUEN  VISIT  HOME.  125 

For  death  is  cold-hearted, 

Yes,  very  cold-hearted. 
Them  he  laid  in  this  house  covered  o'er 
With  green  grass  and  the  cold  iron  door. 

Now  the  grass  which  grows  over  their  grave, 
Or  their  tomb,  or  this  house  as  it  wave 

With  the  wind  as  it  pass, 

But  soon  wither,  alas  ! 
And  came  back  to  the  place  it  came  forth; 
So  is  all  human  kind  from  their  birth, 

Grows,  and  perish,  and  falls, 

Yes,  dies,  withers  and  falls, 
Follow  after  each  other  in  mass, 
As  the  withering,  perishing  grass. 

But  the  spot  is  a  beautiful  place 
For  repose  of  humanity's  race; 

Nature  has  made  it  so, 

And  they  rest  well  below, 
'Neath  its  grass-covered  roof  in  the  shade. 
For  as  Nature  has  kindly  thus  made 

It  so  pleasing  all  round, 

Sloping  gently  all  round, 
From  the  top  to  the  bottom  so  fond, 
To  this  spot  by  the  side  of  the  pond. 

And  as  Nature  was  good  and  so  kind 
As  to  shelter  this  spot  from  the  wind, 

For  in  wintry  form 

Is  the  snow  and  the  storm, 
But  no  cold  do  they  feel  as  asleep, 
Or  the  wintry  storm  as  it  sweep 

O'er  this  cold  mound  of  clay, 

O'er  this  grass-covered  clay, 
With  its  cheeks  of  the  cold  granite  stoner 
As  it  stands  by  the  pond  all  alone. 

Round  this  circling  pond  there's  a  fence 
Near  the  spot  of  so  little  pretense, 


126  THE  HAVEN. 

With  some  trees  leaning  o'er, 

As  with  grief  they  have  bore; 
Or  in  sorrow  for  chose  they  have  seen, 
Or  so  many  put  under  the  green 

In  this  circular  spot, 

'Neath  this  circular  spot, 
Where  in  Chelsea  it's  found  to  the  east — 
Is  not  large,  but  the  greatest's  the  least. 

Now  sleep  on,  as  you've  all  found  your  last 
Besting  place  from  the  storm  and  the  blast; 
May  you  all  rest  in  peace, 
'Neath  the  grass-covered  place, 
Naught  disturb  you  till  God,  when  He  will, 
Calls  his  promise  with  all  to  fulfill, 
Or  when  Gabriel's  notes, 
Calls  to  all  with  those  notes, 
Come  to  life  or  the  dead  to  arise, 
For  as  that  is  His  purpose  all  wise. 


THE  RAVEN. 

BY  E.  A.  POE. 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary, 
While  I  pondered,  weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious 

Volume  of  forgotten  lore — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping, 
Suddenly  there  came  a  tapping 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping, 

Rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
"'Tis  some  visitor/'  I  muttered, 
"  Rapping  at  my  chamber  door — 

Only  this  and  nothing  more." 


THE   HAVEN.  127 

Ah !  distinctly  I  remember, 
It  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember 

Wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor: 
Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow; 
Vainly  I  had  tried  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — 

Sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore — 
For  that  rare  and  radiant  maiden 

Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 

Nameless  here  forevermore. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain 
Rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me,  filled  me  with  fantastic 

Terrors  never  felt  before; 
So  that  now  to  still  the  beating 
Of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating, 
"  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating 

Entrance  at  my  chamber  door — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating 

Entrance  at  my  chamber  door; 

This  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger: 
Hesitating  then  no  longer, 
"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  or  madam,  truly 

Your  forgiveness  I  implore: 
But  the  fact  is,  I  was  napping, 
And  so  gently  you  came  rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping; 

Tapping  at  my  chamber  door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you." 

Here  I  opened  wide  the  door: 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering, 
Long  I  stood  there,  wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal 
Ever  dared  to  dream  before; 


128  THE   RAVEN. 

But  the  silence  was  unbroken, 
And  the  stillness  gave  no  token, 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken 

Was  the  whispered  word  "  Lenore  !  " 
This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo 

Murmured  back  the  word  "  Lenore  I " 
Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning, 
All  my  soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping 

Something  louder  than  before. 
"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is 
Something  at  my  window  lattice;, 
Let  me  see  now  what  thereat  isr 

And  this  mystery  explore — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment, 

And  this  mystery  explore; 

"Pis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more.. 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter, 
When,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  raven 

Of  the  saintly  days  of  yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he, 
Not  a  moment  stopped  or  staid  he, 
But  with  mein  of  lord  or  lady, 

Perched  above  my  chamber  door. 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas, 

Just  above  my  chamber  door, — 

Perched  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling 

My  sad  fancy  into  smiling, 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum 

Of  the  countenance  it  wore. 
"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven, 
Thou,"  I  said,    "  art  sure  no  craven. 
Ghostly,  grim  and  ancient  raven, 


THE  RAVEN.  129 

Wandering  from  the  nightly  shore," 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is 
On  the  night's  plutonian  shore  ?" 
Quoth  the  raven:  "Nevermore." 

Much  I  marveled,  this  ungainly 
Fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning1, 

Little  relevancy  bore; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing 
That  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing 

Bird  above  his  chamber  door, — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured 

Bust  above  his  chamber  door, — 

With  such  name  as  "Nevermore." 

But  the  raven,  sitting  lonely 
On  that  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in 

That  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered; 
Not  one  feather  then  he  fluttered — 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered, 

"  Other  friends  have  flown  before; 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me 

As  my  hopes  have  flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore/' 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken 

By  reply,  so  aptly  spoken, 

"  Doubtless/'  said  I,  "  what  it  uttered 

Is  its  only  stock  and  store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master, 
Whom  unmerciful  disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster, 

Till  his  songs  one  burden  bore; 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope 

That  melancholly  burden  bore 

Of  '  never — nevermore/  " 


130  THE   RAVEN. 

But  the  raven  still  beguiling 
All  my  sad  soul  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in 

Front  of  bird,  and  bust,  and  door; 
Then  upon  the  velvet  sinking 
I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking 

What  this  ominous  bird  of  yore, — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly, 

Gaunt  and  ominous  bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking,  "  Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing, 

But  no  syllable  expressing 

To  the  fowl,  whose  fiery  eyes  now 

Burned  into  my  bosom's  core; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining, 
With  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining 

That  the  lamplight  gloated  o'er, 
But  whose  velvet,  violet  lining 

With  the  lamplight  gloating  o'er. 

She  shall  press,  ah!  nevermore. 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser, 
Perfumed  from  an  unseen  censer 
Swung  by  seraphim  whose  footfalls 

Tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 
"Wretch  !"  I  cried,  "thy  God  hath  lent  thee- 
By  these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite — respite  and  nepenthe 

From  thy  memories  of  Lenore  ! 
Quaff,  O,  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe, 

And  forget  this  lost  Lenore !  " 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore/' 

"Prophet!"  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil!  — 
Prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil !  — 


THE   KAVEN.  131 

Whether  tempter  sent,  or  whether 

Tempest  tossed  thee  here  ashore, 
Desolate,  yet  all  undaunted,  • 

On  this  desert  land  enchanted — 
On  this  home  by  horror  haunted — 

Tell  me  truly,  I  implore — 
Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead? — 

Tell  me,  tell  me,  I  implore  ! " 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet ! "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil  !— 
Prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil — 
By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us — 

By  that  God  we  both  adore — 
Tell  this  soul,  with  sorrow  laden, 
If,  within  the  distant  Aidenri, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden 

Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden 

Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore." 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting, 

Bird  or  fiend  !  "  I  said,  upstarting — 
"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest, 

And  the  night's  Plutonian  shore ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token 
Of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken !  — 
.    Quit  the  bust  above  my  door ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart, 

And  take  thy  form  from  off  my  door  ! " 

Quoth  the  raven,  "Nevermore." 

But  the  raven,  never  flitting, 
Still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas 

Just  above  my  chamber  door; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming 


132  THE   HAVEN. 

Of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming, 

And  the  Jamplight  o'er  him  streaming 

Throws  his  shadow  on  the  floor; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow 
That  lies  floating  on  the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted — nevermore ! 


INDEX. 


Page. 

San  Francisco,  or  The  Sand  Hill  City.  -  5 

Lines,  written  to  Mrs.  Calif,  in  Boston.  17 
Whims  of  the  Ocean.  -  -20 

Good-Bye  to  '65.  24 

On  Becoming  a  Grandfather.  -  25 
Lines,  written  on  board  "  Sacramento,"  on  Trip  from 

Panama.  28 
Lines,  written  to  Mrs.  Henshelwood  on  her  Tarry  at 

San  Jose.  -  31 

Reign  of  Emperor  Norton.  33 

Woman.  -  35 

The  Snow.  38 

Force  of  Habit.  -  -  42 

Celebration  of  Tin  Wedding.  45 

Mission  Hills.  -  47 

Western  Man's  Travels  to  San  Francisco.  -  51 

To  Mary  McQueen.  -  -  62 

California  Pioneer.  -  64 

Lines  sent  to  Wife  While  Away.  -  -  72 
Fable  Betwixt  the  Mares  Goldsmith  Maid  and  Lucy, 

and  the  Race  with  Occident  -  73 

On  James  King  of  William.  83 

Lines  on  Grandmother  McQueen.  -  84 


134  INDEX. 

Conception  of  Wrong.  86 

San  Francisco  Summer  Winds.                                      -  87 

New  Version  of  "  Home  Again/'  to  Mrs.  Henshelwood.  88 
Lines,  written  on  Passing  Sunday,  June  22d,  1873,  m 

San  Francisco.  89 

POEMS  OF  SORROW  AND  REFLECTION. 

Lines,  written  on  Hearing  of  the  Death  of  a  Valuable 

Friend,  Characteristic  of  a  Good  Man.                    -  94 

Graves  of  Thomas  Starr  King  and  Baker.     -  97 

Lines,  written  at  the  Deaih-Bed  of  Author's  Neice.  100 

Lone  Mountain.                                                          -  101 
Lines,    written  on   Recollection   of   Hearing  Father 
Taylor,  of  North  Square,    Boston,   Preach   to  the 

Sailors.      -                                                                    -  105 

Err  on  the  Side  of  Mercy.                                         -  106 

Lines,  written  on  the  Author's  First  Wife.                   -  no 

Parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son — Comment.      -         -  112 
Reflections,  written  on  a  Return  Visit  Home  After 

Twenty  Years  Absence  in   California.      -         -  116 

The  Raven.           -         -         -         -         -         -         -  126 


AN  INITIAL  -  URE  T0  KB> 

...-mi-lilt?  '~ 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  IvIBRARY 


